


Friendvengers

by raineraine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: All The Ships, All the plot arcs, Alternate Canon, Avengers Family, Avengers Feels, Avengers Tower, BAMF Wanda Maximoff, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bucky Barnes Is Finding Himself, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Clint Barton Feels, Coming of Age, Domestic Avengers, Eventual Happy Ending, Extended Families, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, I Ship It, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Long update periods, M/M, Marvel Headcanons, Marvel Universe, Multi, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Or as the ship generator named them Falcocksilver (yes really), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker is an Avenger, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Samtro, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Ship Indecision, Sitcom, Slice of Life, Some Discussions of Mental Health, Some Plot, Stony - Freeform, Superfamily (Marvel), Superhusbands (Marvel), Team as Family, This Became Longer Than Planned, This fic is not abandoned, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Uncle Clint Barton, Unconventional Families, WIP, Waiting For Update, What-If, everyone gets a chapter, mentions of depression, mostly canon compliant, superdads, winterwidow - Freeform, winterwitch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8888671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raineraine/pseuds/raineraine
Summary: What if Pietro Maximoff hadn't died? What if everyone had patched things up after Civil War? What if Peter Parker could live as Spider-Man full time?Welcome to the world of Friendvengers, where what-ifs and headcanons creep into daily life.





	1. Life in the Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! Thanks for stopping by to check out the sure-to-be-insane fic that is Friendvengers. I originally started working on this for fun, then it spiraled into NaNoWriMo, and I just haven't stopped. It has nothing to do with my other fic, "It Doesn't Hurt Like It Used To." They are not in the same 'verse. Friendvengers is a semi-canon compliant beast all it's own. I hope you grow to love these characters as much as I do. An ENORMOUS, ENAMORED, INFINITE thank you to  h34rt1lly  for being my support system, my cheerleader, my handholder, my beta, and my best friend. This fic is dedicated to her. 
> 
> Any questions, please drop me a comment and I'll reply as soon as I can! <3 No specific update schedule set as of right now, but this fic will be continued indefinitely.

“What are you reading?”   


Bucky had made every attempt to ingrain in the Avengers that they couldn’t sneak up on him. Years of training as the Winter Soldier, an ever-efficient asset and assassin, had left him with a lingering penchant for being attuned with all of his senses. While this made him an excellent multitasker, it never ceased to annoy any of the plethora of superheroes that lurked throughout the tower. Today, like many other days since he had skeptically agreed to move into the tower, Pietro was making it his personal mission to test the depth of his awareness. The thing people without a super-soldier serum enhancing their entire being on a cellular level could never understand was that his training with Hydra had only intensified something that was already there. Hell, Bucky could say with near-certainty that the shaggy-haired Maximoff twin wouldn’t be able to exercise his powers against Steve if the man would ever keep his eyes (or mind) off of Tony Stark.   


“You mean aside from your presence in my peripheral vision?”   


Pietro snorted with indigence as he watched Bucky turn another page. Briefly, he contemplated the success rate of using his powers to try to pry the book from Barnes’ hands. It took less than three seconds to conclude that the probability of his success was significantly lower than the probability of broken fingers, leaving him to opt for a safer method of getting the answer to his question. Rolling from his position on the couch, he dropped easily to the floor and peered upwards to try to puzzle out the text on the front of the novel. Not for the first time, Bucky was casual about his acute awareness when it came to his surroundings. Metal fingers splayed wider across the cover, concealing whatever text Pietro may have been able to read.   


“WAAAAAANDA!”  


Bucky quirked an eyebrow, not bothering to contain his chuckle at the fact that the members of the Avengers reminded him on a regular basis that being a superhero did not mean that you were entirely self-sufficient. Raising his book high above his head to ensure Pietro would have to put in more than a millisecond of effort to attempt to snatch it, he snaked his other arm around a nearby throw pillow—only to have it lobbing towards Pietro’s face just at the moment that the elevator doors opened to reveal the other half of the twin duo.

“Can I go even one day, no, one HOUR, without the two of you bickering?” Her voice was light, laced with amusement that meets her eyes. “Dear brother, what have you done to James this time?”

Pietro stuck out his tongue, feigning pain from the pillow he took to the face moments before (which he could have avoided, if he hadn’t been aspiring towards dramatic effect) and pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky.

“He threw the pillow at me! All I did was ask him a question!”

“Really? Only a single question?” Wanda’s arched brow saw right through her brother’s veil of innocence, a sight she knew all too well.

Bucky had been holding his book in the air where he had lofted it away from Pietro, content to just stare with amusement at the bickering twins. This would have been an affirmative plan if Wanda had not made a point of calling him James. The Winter Soldier cast a glance at the ceiling, wondering if a howling call for Steve would merit the same response that Pietro had coaxed Wanda down to the common floor with, but thought better of the potential break in the spell the fairer of the twins was weaving on the other. Instead, he focused on keeping his emotional reactions in check (a lingering trait of Hydra training that could make or break a situation) as he replayed the way his birth name sounded out of the mouth of the Scarlet Witch herself.

“—And honestly, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU that there are plenty of other things to do in the tower that do not involve annoying your fellow Avengers?!”

Bucky blinked, wondering how long he had been tuned out of the conversation, and met the eyes of a very defeated Pietro. He shrugged, wordlessly indicating “you’re the one who called her down here, not me” before lowering his book in front of his face in a vain effort to resume reading. Concealed behind it, Bucky fought to maintain a neutral expression. James? Since when did anyone, aside from the occasional Steve Rogers teasing, call him anything other than ‘Bucky’?

Luckily for Wanda, only his full name in sequence caused him to fight off panic. Sam and Bruce had been working with him in the months since he moved into the tower to create a treatment plan that could negate his long-ingrained trauma a la Hydra. This wouldn’t be a fix-all solution, especially not this early on, but in spite of this knowledge, every member of the team seemed accustomed to watching his emotional responses. Rather than spark any sort of worry in Wanda, he chose to plan an escape route. Besides, everyone always telephoned his questionable moments back to Steve.

“At the risk of this one--“ Bucky tosses a throw pillow at distracted Pietro, managing to lob it directly into his chest in his quest for emphasis, “—further interrupting my book, I’m going to my room.”

Pietro stuck out his tongue before rolling to his stomach and tucking the pillow under his face.

“And for the record, you persistent little speed demon, I’m reading Harry Potter.”

Pietro snorted into the pillow. “You really do have to catch up, old timer.” 

* * *

 

Steve's floor was never quiet. Something about silence brought back the moments he didn't want to think about, the ones he locked away from a time before he woke up in New York as he now knew it. The silence that followed Bucky's fall, when he physically couldn't scream anymore. Maintaining quiet as the Commandos crept through forests in Germany, fearful that even a breath taken too loudly would be their downfall. The silence when he hit the water, wondering how much longer his enhanced cells would keep him suspended, drowning. The best thing Stark had ever employed for him was the surround sound-- something to drown out how loud silence could be.

The music that murmured through the rooms Steve called home was more wildly varied than some of the others had expected. The majority of it seemed to be tailored to whoever’s company he was sharing, perhaps an inkling towards the emphatic nature of America’s favorite Captain. When Bucky Barnes shared space with him, no matter the reason, the music seemed to gravitate towards pop-punk and old school waltzes. With Natasha, smooth Russian orchestral strains guided their conversations. Clint was particularly fond of the challenging drum rhythms and bass Steve sought for him, honing in on heavier vibrations resonating with his reduced hearing.

With Tony, the selections were more subtle. Anyone who knew Tony Stark for more than a period of five minutes would be able to draw the conclusion that the man had a particular affinity for old school rock and roll. If they knew him for even ten minutes, inevitably Black Sabbath would permeate the atmosphere. For Steve, it was about digging deeper. Assorted pianists often competed for time in the speakers with wailing rock stars. Ballroom dance music crept in, disguised as a jest, to secure the moments of Tony doing intricate steps around Steve's kitchen. In his mind's eye, Stark was anything but linear.

Cap’s tendency towards deep observations was what caused Tony Stark to halt his barreling out of the elevator, already talking with animated hand gestures and rapid syllables, to instead gape at the sight before him. In the middle of the living room, couches already rearranged to accommodate it, was a sleek grand piano. Equally notable to Tony, there was a lack of Steve.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Location on Captain Rogers.”

“He is in his bedroom, sir.”

“Did you know about this?”

“Yes, I authorized the purchase and delivery.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Tony didn't sound angry, merely curious.

“Captain Rogers requested that I keep it strictly confidential. I believe he intended to present it to you himself, sir.”

Tony raised his eyebrows, foregoing a response as he crossed the room to the new piece of furniture. ‘Furniture? Really, you're out of practice for a genius.’ He shook his head, both to break through the haze of his internal monologue and at the very idea that Steve would ask his own AI to deceive him. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear the footfalls in the hall. Steve emerged, toweling his hair and humming to himself, only to nearly collide with Tony’s shoulder.   


“I-- you-- Jarvis, how did he get in here before I could show him the surprise?!”

Stark turned, crossing his arms and giving a half-hearted approximation of his signature smirk. 

“Last time I checked, I’m your landlord. Permission to enter was in the fine print.”

“Oh, right, the landlord. As long as that isn’t all you are,” Steve quipped back, swatting at Tony’s crossed arms with his towel. “You could at least pretend you like it.”

“I don’t need to pretend, I authentically like it. Fits right in with the decor, which is surprising, considering it came from someone with the interior decorating sense of a caveman. One that isn’t clear to me is when you started playing piano, old man Rogers.”

“I didn’t ever start-- but you did.” 

Steve straightened, jaw set with open defiance, waiting for a rebuff or joke of some kind from the other man. He had expected snark, sass, or even denial over the very idea that THE Tony Stark had a secret that no one else had picked up on. What Steve hadn’t been prepared for was the slump of Tony’s shoulders as he studied the bench seat once more before sitting.   


“My mom taught me. She played a lot, before…” He was studying the keys, hesitating between folding his hands in his lap or placing them on the ivory. “Well. You know.”

Since finding out that Bucky had been responsible for the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark, it had been a difficult topic to broach around Tony. Steve had felt guilty at first, hiding the information from one of his closest friends, but damn it it wasn’t really Bucky who did it. After seeing what the trigger words did to him, Tony came to a terse peace with the facts, but it was still something Steve would have rather avoided discussing. Right now in particular, considering the surprise had already been shot to hell and back, was not a time when he wanted the past poking holes. 

“What was her favorite song?” Steve sank onto the bench next to him, angling at one end so he could study Tony’s face as they spoke. 

The question sparked a chuckle, followed by a whimsical smile. “You wouldn’t know it, Capsicle, but if you did, you’d be surprised. It was ‘Home Sweet Home’ by Motley Crue.” 

A quizzical furrow of his brow must have been the tip-off as Steve shook his head in unruffled defeat. “I can’t say I’ve heard it. Could you play it for me?”

For a moment, he wondered if he shouldn’t have asked. The words hung in the small space between them, weighted and waiting, as innocent as they were unfiltered. Just as Steve was about to revoke his statement with a stumbling apology, Tony let out the breath he had been holding and gingerly placed his hands on the keys. Steve leaned forward, a ripple of excitement running through him as he held his breath in anticipation. The quick opening notes took him by surprise, wholly expecting something slow and sweet. Just as he was adjusting to the melody, something he could not have even procured in his wildest dreams swept him into a shiver of shocked pleasure-- the sound of Tony singing. 

_ Just when things went right _

_ It doesn't mean they were always wrong _

_ Just take this song and you'll never feel _

_ Left all alone _

_ Take me to your heart _

_ Feel me in your bones _

_ Just one more night _

_ And I'm comin' off this _

_ Long and winding road _

_ I'm on my way _

_ I'm on my way _

_ Home sweet home _

Steve didn’t realize he had been staring until Tony’s eyes met his own. He swallowed roughly, burying the tears that had been threatening at the sound of Tony’s voice. The song wasn’t like anything he had pictured Maria being a fan of-- he would have expected that to be linked to Howard. All the words that had hovered in his mouth, bated and waiting for the final notes, dissipated when he looked at the broken expression on Tony’s face. Had this been a good idea? Was surprising him with something that made him look like he had just heard the news of the Starks’ deaths over again really the route he should have taken? Apologies, sympathies, questions… As he parted his lips, nothing seemed to match the gravity of the silence that hung between them. Instead, he was surprised when Tony dropped his hands from the keys to Steve’s own. 

“I haven’t played piano since she died.” 

If he hadn’t been astutely studying Tony’s face for any sign of a change in demeanor, Steve probably wouldn’t have even caught the muttered words. Cautiously, he laced his fingers through the other set of hands, squeezing in reassurance. This was all he knew how to offer, the questions still a torrential storm waiting for a cloud burst inside in head. 

“Thank you for caring what her favorite song was.”

* * *

 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Bruce lifted his head to meet Tony’s eyes, his hands flush with some project or another spread across the table. The benefit of two labs within the Tower was, supposedly, that Bruce could work without interruptions. He should have known that Tony Stark wouldn’t see himself as such an interruption. He tilted his head down to his table, his eyes leaving Stark as he resumed the assembly. 

“I’m working— it’s not like I have a job to wake up for tomorrow, either.”

Even Tony knew that Bruce struggled with feeling like he had a fulfilling purpose. There was always something in his lab, the mind of a scientist perpetually at work, but this wasn’t the fulfillment that Banner was seeking. Tony knew it, Steve knew, hell Clint even knew it. This didn’t stop Tony from checking in; his frequent visits had nothing to do with the fact that he owned the tower. It had everything to do with the kindred soul he found in Bruce. He sat down on the bench opposite, watching the hands before him as they fit together pieces of a puzzle. 

“Is that… You know, we don’t need another Ultron around here right?” The quizzical furrow of Tony’s brow was enough to coax a chuckle out of Bruce. 

“Fortunately for everyone on planet earth, I’m designing this bot, not you. This bot has only a fourth of the AI capacity of JARVIS, not double it.” 

Banner looked over the rims of his glasses at Stark, attempting to level him with a stare the way Steve could when they argued. Instead, it seemed to only fuel the flame of curiosity burning bright in the over-active mind of one Anthony Stark. Tony picked up the now-assembled head and flipped it, fingers working to disassemble the shell and access the motherboard before Bruce could complete a full rotational eye roll. 

“Why does this look like a sparring bot?”

“If you want to know what something is,” Bruce let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed his temples before continuing, “there is always a possibility of simply asking.”

“Now where would be the fun in that?” Stark was already striding to the nearest input, AI motherboard in hand, tossing the snark over his shoulder carelessly. 

“I’m trying to help Wanda.”

Tony’s fingers stalled their tapping, his lips parted to give a command to JARVIS. Wanda? What could Wanda possibly need a sparring bot for?

“I already know where your head went, and it’s not what you’re thinking, okay? She… She’s a kid, we all say that. But in reality, she isn’t a child— not since the Accords. Losing control in Lagos put her lower than a child could ever reach— and I know what it’s like to lose control.” 

Banner slid silently off of the bench, walking to stand next to Stark, before he tapped the screen and revealed the inner-workings of the bot. “She could hurt it, but it couldn’t hurt her, or anyone else. It is only programmed to analyze movement patterns and defense styles. This is significantly less sophisticated than JARVIS’ understanding when you’re in the suit. The bot’s sole purpose is to allow Wanda a target for her aggression. In theory, she will hone her powers without any damage to herself or anyone else. Although I have a feeling I’m going to be fixing a few of these before we reach that point.”

Tony’s eyes scanned the programming, making incomprehensible assessment-noises as he adjusted a few settings. Bruce watched, neither offended nor ashamed by the compulsion of perfection that ruled Tony’s life. He was used to it by now, and had come to understand the actions were automatic rather than performed with malicious intent. Aside from that fact, he thought briefly, the more checks this went through the safer it would be for Wanda.

“Why are you only making one?”

Bruce blinked, his concentration on Wanda broken by Stark’s jarring comment in the otherwise silent lab. “Why do you ask?”

“We have a 3D printer. Near infinite materials available,” he waved his hand in a gesture that seemed to indicate nearly infinite funds to acquire materials, “why not make her more than one? If there’s a potential for out of commission bots on repair, she’s going to be out of practice during that gap. Sequential rotation and pulls for maintenance allows for consistency for Wanda, and routine for you.” 

Stunned would have been putting the emotional torrent Bruce felt mildly. His head snapped to look at Tony in genuine surprise, a catch-breath barely suppressing an audible expression of surprise to match his slack jaw and startled eyes. “That’s… yeah. Entirely reasonable, of course. Probably wouldn’t be best to give her a way to direct her frustrations and then suddenly lose it…” 

The trail in his voice caught Tony’s attention— but he wasn’t Steve. Hell, he wasn’t even Pepper. Emotional forays were not his strong suit, and exploring the rawness in Bruce’s voice over the thought of loss wasn’t something he felt equipped to delve deeper into. He made a quick note on his watch to speak to Sam about it later— at least Sam had the tools to address these things, which had proved beneficial to everyone in the tower at one point or another. 

“Does she know you’re doing this?” He cast a sidelong glance at the screen before deeming the assessment of quality and pulling the motherboard. 

Something about this question spurred Bruce’s mission once more. He looked at Tony, grinning broadly and looking slightly mischievous as he sat back down to continue the assembly process. 

“She doesn’t— but her brother does.”

At this, even Tony had to smile. He extended a hand, raising his eyebrows at Bruce expectantly. “Well if you’re going to make more than one, we better speed this up.”

* * *

 

Sam Wilson couldn’t stand a cluttered space. Coincidentally, he couldn’t stand a dirty one either. A simple deep clean per week, with surface cleaning daily, was no trouble to maintain, not when he only had a few hours at the VA a day to stand against his progress. Being an Avenger had certain perks, but with the perks came downsides. The lack of structure in his life alongside a frequently upset routine were just a couple of reasons why living in the Tower wasn’t always all the outside world perceived it to be. Before meeting Steve, Sam had become accustomed to his life stateside, maybe even comfortable with it. Living under media scrutiny, paparazzi dodging, constant unannounced company in his living space, and other incited chaos wasn’t what he thought he was signing up for when he found Captain freakin’ America running alongside him a few years ago. He shook his head with an internal curse at his own self-pity train and filled his teapot with vinegar before setting it on the stove to heat— just another step of deep cleaning.

The elevator doors opening directly into any given floor’s main living room made it exasperatingly impossible at times to avoid company. Clint was frequently claiming an incorrect press of a button before he strolled into Sam’s kitchen to raid the fridge, while Steve had a habit of waltzing in and plopping on the couch next to Sam without any preamble. Although he feigned annoyance (some days it wasn’t all that feigned), the only thing that really bothered Sam was the general disrespect among the team for his orange juice. At the thought of this, his scrubbing of the sink became more forceful. Sam was lost in his endless quest for sparkling stainless steel and didn’t even hear the doors today. Consequently, he didn’t see the body stalking across his floor, either. The only cue that there was something amiss was the opening of his fridge. 

“Clint, man, the simple pleasantries of ‘hello’ are generally appreciated before you just go for someone’s food you know,” he waved his scrub brush in the general direction of the door of the fridge, tone light with jest, before resuming his (obviously) important task. 

There was no response, only the opening and closing of a cupboard before Sam heard the distinctive clink of a glass meeting his quartz countertop. Exasperated, he threw the brush into the sink, knowing what was coming if he turned around.

“If that’s my orange juice, there will not be enough arrows to defend you from my wrath, I swear—” Sam stopped and narrowed his eyes, breathing deeply before turning to continue his rant. “There will be bloo- BARNES, PUT IT DOWN.”

Bucky looked amused, and proud of himself, as he continued to pour the last of the jug into his cup. Spinning the empty bottle in his metal hand, he cocked an eyebrow at Sam, silently daring him to follow through with the threat. Sam’s jaw set in frustration as he pointed at the jug, glaring at Bucky with a silent demand to return it. 

“Sam, do you remember when I asked you to put your seat up?” Bucky tossed the jug into the trash without a glance, so sure in his aim and peripheral vision that he didn’t feel the need to be hindered with the turn of his head. He picked up the glass, smirking before he downed it in a single go. “We’re even now.”

Sam looked longingly at the the jug in the trash, knowing full-well it was the last in the fridge, before throwing his hands up in defeat. “I hate you.”

Bucky was gathering his hair with his hands and couldn’t help but laugh lazily at the statement as he secured it back with a hair tie. Since the first time Sam had attempted to declare their rivalry, he knew the other man’s heart wasn’t in the words. The common denominator of Steve didn’t allow for anything beyond sibling-like rivalry, not in the airport with the Spiderling, and certainly not over a fruit beverage. Sam scowled nonetheless, gathering a mug and tea in seething silence before pouring from the now-hot kettle and stalking into the living room. 

“Did you only come for my orange juice, Barnes, or do you have an ulterior motive?” 

“Honestly, I’m here for the orange juice.” Bucky tucked his hands into his pockets, cocking his head and looking not the least bit like he felt a shred of guilt for the atrocity that Sam was going on and on about. 

“And you guys wonder why I hate you,” Sam snapped at him before pacing back into the kitchen to retrieve his tea. “At least you didn’t eat me out of every available resource.”

“Awe, come on, you could just go to Clint’s floor if you were that bothered, Wilson.”

“It is the principal of the matter!”

Bucky pulled up a stool up to the island and put his elbows on the counter, watching Sam pour milk into his tea. He had his personal suspicions that this was less about orange juice and more about a general disruption of personal space. Before the Tower, according to Steve, Sam had come back from deployment and lived alone. Leave it to Steve to indirectly upset the lives of everyone around him— Bucky was all too familiar with that notion, leading back to their childhood in Brooklyn. Sam sat next to him without further comment, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug of tea and staring at nothing in particular before he took a sip. That was the exact moment all hell broke loose. The mug hit the counter top, shattering against the quartz, as Sam alternated between swearing and spitting. It wasn’t until the shatter that Bucky realized the connection. 

“Sam, why did you make your tea with vinegar?”

Pushing away from the island with another huff, Sam began cleaning up the disaster that had just assaulted his otherwise-clean kitchen, and his mouth. “Living here is going to be the death of me, I swear.”


	2. During Which We Acquire Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite Spiderling had to make his appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all! This was a little sooner than I had planned to update, but here's some cheer during this holiday season. A HUGE thank you for the hits, comments, kudos, and bookmarks so far. I mean it, from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> As always, thank you to h34rt1lly and Liz for being my betas and friend. <3

Tony wasn’t one for public events (despite what SHIELD or Pepper had ever orchestrated on his behalf in terms of business parties and press conferences), but this particular high school graduation wasn’t just some other unavoidable event. He had elected to attend Peter Parker’s graduation before the invitation had ever arrived— and elected to drag the team alongside him without a rousing discussion. Pietro had snorted at the news, citing that Peter wouldn’t even note his presence, before receiving a firm glare from Clint that incited his mutterings of begrudging consent. Clint, of course, had asked about the presence of food (afterwards, here at the Tower, yes, you can pick the catering service) before he gave a thumbs up and promptly resumed lecturing Pietro about public relations and making friends. Wanda and Bruce both amicably agreed, although both seemed confused on why their presence was required in the first place. Nat, Bucky, Sam, and Steve’s agreement hadn’t come as any surprise, as they were honestly the only ones Tony could have predicted an honest yes from. 

Once the matter of (implied) discussion had made the rounds, the planning stage went into effect. Clint and Sam had capitalized on handling the catering, of course on the Stark credit card, leaving Tony utterly clueless regarding what was being served. Natasha and Wanda overtook the decorating, somehow coaxing Bruce’s perplexed assistance, and Pietro’s chorus of opinions without any actual offers for help. This left Steve, Tony, and Bucky to sort out gifts— the one thing Tony had a specific idea about. He had let the entire team in on the fact that he his own gifting agenda, but had recruited the ‘old men’ for their collective opinions about a timeless cover gift. 

“You can’t go wrong with a sniper rifle,” Bucky had offered as he flicked popcorn in the general direction of Clint’s dog, Lucky. 

“Barnes, another crack like that and I might actually be convinced you have a sense of humor.”

“Bucky, you’re about to be voted off of the gift-giving team,” Steve stretched and stole a handful of popcorn from his place beside Tony, pointing an accusatory finger.

“What?! It’s useful! Think of the stress relief of going to the shooting range.”

“The kid shoots webs already, I don’t think we need to employ another projectile here,” Tony declared as he chewed thoughtfully. “Next suggestion.”

“You could give him a bike,” Natasha noted from her spot on the couch, sketching the layout of the decorations. 

“I guess it’s better than his two feet,” Tony mused, brow furrowing. “Or we could get him a car.”

“Stark, you are not buying a car for an eighteen year old kid. Not if you want to see it in one piece again,” Bucky lamented, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen the type of cars you bu—” 

“I’ve got it!” Steve jumped up so fast he nearly toppled the coffee table, clapping his hands together. “A MOTORCYCLE.”

Tony’s eyes widened, hardly believing that suggestion could have possibly just come from America’s Golden Boy, at precisely the same moment that Bucky fell to the floor in hysterical laughter. He looked helplessly to Natasha, completely flustered by Bucky’s reaction, only to see that she had joined in on the snickering.

“I must need hearing aids, because I could not have possibly just heard Captain America suggest we give a teenager a potentially dangerous vehicle.”

Now Natasha was really laughing, joining the hysterics Barnes had stirred up as Tony continued to look between them. 

“That’s the Stevie I remember,” Bucky breathed, attempting to speak through his laughter. “He’s more of a troublemaker than you think, Stark.” 

“Maybe it’s just the Stark extravagance rubbing off on him,” Nat snickered, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

“It’s a perfectly valid suggestion,” Steve huffed, looking no less excited than he had before the faux-mockery. “And I haven’t heard any objections!”

Tony rubbed his forehead, unable to come up with a better suggestion nor a reason not to get the aforementioned one. Reflecting on Steve’s excitement was enough to sway him, though. If the gift-giver was already that excited, he could only imagine how the utterly unsuspecting giftee would react. That factor aside, this was a great distraction from his secretive planning that had been underway. Stark threw up his hands in a show of surrender, looking at Steve as he sighed. 

“Fine. We’ll get him a motorcycle— but you and Barnes have to teach him to drive it.”

He stalked towards the elevator to a chorus of whoops from Steve and Bucky, already chattering away about models as if they weren’t from another century. Maybe they were adjusting marginally better than anyone else gave them credit for. He watched them for a moment, fingers lingering on the panel, with their heads together and a phone between them with Honda website open. Natasha caught his eye and winked, a silent exchange that told him all he needed to know.

* * *

“Can anyone get dressed around here without my supervision?!” Tony thundered, slamming yet another bedroom door that he had left in the last hour. “Honestly, people, this is a very simple request— look like you give a damn and blend in!”

“What does my lack of sleeves have to do with whether or not I give a damn, exactly?” Clint called from the other side of the door.

Stark huffed and proceeded on his mission towards the elevator, trying to get back to his own floor so he could get himself ready instead of playing handmaiden to a bunch of genetically gifted (or enhanced) overgrown toddlers. Coulson’s mother hen tendencies and endless patience would have come in handy today, he mused to himself.

“At least you already handled the kids, and Bruce can handle himself,” Natasha said from Clint’s kitchen, dressed in a simple black sheath and boots. Oversized sunglasses perched on her head, presumably the ‘blend in’ portion of her outfit that Tony had just moments ago demanded. Not bothering to justify her sarcasm with a response, he turned to say something to Steve, only to find he wasn’t on the couch as he had been before he went to berate Clint’s wardrobe choices.

“Where the hell is Steve?” Tony could feel his blood pressure rising by the minute. Why did this have to be such a disaster? Probably because it could not be a day in the life Tony Stark without someone challenging him. Not that he was going to admit that to Natasha, or anyone else on the team— talk about satisfaction he wasn’t willing to give. 

“He went to change, sometime between the first time you sounded like you were going to light Clint’s sleeveless shirts on fire and the time you stormed out. He said something about wanting to have a wardrobe left tomorrow, and went to his floor.”

“What he was wearing was— whatever, I’ll deal with that in a minute. Again.” Tony closed his eyes and attempted to breathe, not particularly keen on the thought of JARVIS being alarmed by his rising vitals. “And that leaves Barnes…?”

Natasha shrugged, putting down her coffee with a look that he couldn’t place. “I don’t know. I can go look for him, and make sure he is appropriately dress—” 

“No, no, no, and hell no. You stay here with Clint. I don’t want to think about you— dressing, or undressing— Barnes. I’ll go, since I’m clearly ready to go with time to spare!” Stark snapped, gesturing to his standard apparel of t-shirt and jeans. 

“At least you’ll ‘blend in’ with all the other dads!” Nat tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared into Clint’s room. 

The elevators slid shut in time with Tony’s exhale. “JARVIS, is Sam ready?”

“Yes, sir. He’s been waiting on the common floor for forty-two minutes.”

“Tell him I’m glad someone around here can be ready at a reasonable time, and send him after Barnes. I’m going to go check on Steve and get my clothes even on if it’s the last possible nanosecond before we leave.”

“Right away, sir.”

Tony hadn’t expected the first step into Steve’s floor to be stepping onto what appeared to be a silk tie. He picked it up, cautiously looking ahead to see if there was anything else he should avoid between here and the hallway. The coffee table— cufflinks. Why on earth did he need to wear cufflinks to Peter’s graduation? This was the opposite of blending in. Stark shook in head, focusing on the trail of breadcrumbs that would clue him in regarding which room he might find Rogers in. Four steps— a (now wrinkled) dress shirt. Handmaiden was sounding more and more accurate as Tony gathered the shirt from the floor and stopped outside of the bathroom door. Knocking a few times with no response, he threw the door open, only to be met with an empty room. Empty, that is, aside from the shoes and pants that lay in a pile on the floor. Was he wearing anything he had put on this morning? 

“Steve?”

“The door’s open.”

“I was just coming to see if— NOT THAT. I WAS NOT COMING TO SEE IF YOU WERE NAKED, FOR GOD’S SAKE I—” Tony put his hand over his eyes, leaning on the door frame and trying not to call this entire morning a wash. 

“YOU CAME INTO MY ROOM TONY, IT ISN’T MY FAULT YOU HAVE A SUDDEN PROBLEM WITH—”

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON DOWN THERE?” Bucky’s voice thundered from somewhere closer to the elevator. 

Tony no longer cared what he saw, dropping his hand and making a conscious effort to look at Steve’s eyes as he spoke. “Do you…need any help here?”

“Not the kind of help you can offer him on your schedule,” Bucky snickered from behind Tony. 

Steve cocked an eyebrow, though whether it was at Bucky or Tony was unclear, and turned to walk back into his closet. With his bullshit meter already overflowing before the team had even left, there wasn’t much for Tony to do other than stand in the hall and suffer the awkward silence while Barnes smirked at him. Tony started his assessment of Bucky’s outfit, starting at his boots to avoid eye contact (which could invite a conversation about what the hell was that) before noting the dark jeans and skimming upwards to find a white t-shirt.

“I thought we all agreed to blend in?” Tony muttered sarcastically, gesturing to Bucky’s metal arm. 

Before Bucky’s scowl could morph into whatever rebuttal he was about to throw back, something black flew past Tony’s face. He didn’t have time to blink before a familiar metal arm snatched whatever foreign object out of the air. Steve, now fully clothed and looking rather smug, leaned against the door frame. A simple cerulean button up, left open at the collar, paired with gray slacks and a pair of Doc Marten loafers. At least he didn’t leave room to be lectured. 

“If you want to blend in, you can wear that, Buck.”

Barnes unfurled what appeared to be a leather jacket. Tony was unable to help himself from examining it, leaning over to peer behind Bucky’s shoulder as they silently judged the jacket. He couldn’t stop himself from bobbing his head in a content nod, internally musing that it couldn’t have been a better choice for Barnes if he had picked it out himself. Well… actually, it was probably a better choice considering he hadn’t picked it out. Steve knew Bucky better than anyone, and it showed in even the smallest gestures. Moto-style and weathered in all the right places, everything from the brushed-gray stripes on the biceps to the vintage pockets looked like a smart marriage of two New York City eras that Barnes embodied. He looked at Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, hoping his eyes conveyed approval. 

“Does it meet your approval, Mother Hen?” Bucky nudged Stark and nodded to the jacket. “The clothing, Stark. Not the super soldier.” 

Steve looked infinitely grateful for the door frame to hold him up, nearly collapsing as his face flushed and he coughed, feigning laughter and avoiding Tony’s (presumably) scowling expression. If he had looked up, he might have been surprised to see that there wasn’t a scowl at all. Tony held Bucky’s gaze, not missing a beat, and gave him a thumbs up. 

“You’re lucky he has better fashion sense than you do, Barnes,” Stark deadpanned. “Otherwise you’d be wearing a silk shirt— and cuff links.” Without another word, he strode down the hall, wondering if there would be any more disasters that would prevent him from getting himself ready. Of course, it’s always a good rule of thumb not to question when things are going right. 

“JARVIS, time?”

“10:52am, Mister Stark.”

Tony stopped mid-step, sure he must have heard his AI incorrectly. “Excuse me, WHAT?”

“10:52am, Mister Stark. I am certain I have not made an error.”

“Son of a— get everyone to the cars, NOW!”

“Right away, sir.”

How the hell had he just lost almost two hours playing “Dress Up The Avengers”? Come to think of it, that was probably an app someone had— no, no, now was not the time to investigate every whim his head concocted. It was time to round up the damn Brady Bunch he had spent all morning chasing after and be en route to Midtown High School of Science and Technology before they completely blew the surprise. With a huff he turned on his heel to shout at Bucky and Steve, both of which were murmuring quietly about something or other down the hall right where he had left them. “KNUCKLE AND CHUCKLE, LET’S GET OUT OF HERE.”

* * *

Steve had followed Tony down to the garage without complaint, snickering with Bucky all the way down like they had some sort of secret. 

“Something you two geezers want to share with the class?” Before the day’s end he was surely going to burst a blood vessel. 

The doors opened to the garaged, everyone else assembled around the assortment of vehicles. Bucky made a beeline for his bike, seeming to pick up on the tension surrounding Tony. 

“Barnes, do you even know where you’re going?” Natasha called after him. 

“I’m more observant than you think, Natalia.”

_ Either that or you bother to listen to me when I’m rattling off instructions for the fourth time today _ , Tony thought in mock-annoyance. He was glad someone bothered to listen to him, even if the someone happened to have been a source of embarrassment for him only twenty minutes ago. He let Bucky go without further comment, sparing a glance to make sure he had bothered to put on a helmet before addressing the rest of the assembled bodies. 

“Alright, that leaves eight of us, and Peter’s coming back here later for the party— which, for the love of all that is holy, no one tell him. This is a SURPRISE party, remember?” He shot a glance at Clint. “That includes hints, or comments about how great the food will be later. Got it?”

Clint groaned, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking the floor in defeat. “How is a guy supposed to have fun when his mom is telling him what to do?”

“Okay, that’s the second mom joke I’ve heard today, who the hell started that?”

Pietro raised his hand proudly, not even bothering to conceal his pride in his own joke. “That would be me— from what I hear around here it used to be an Agent Coulson, and you’ve stepped up to the plate to fill his shoes.”

Usually this would be the moment that Wanda would snap off some sort of comment to keep her twin brother in line. Tony waited a moment, expecting her to fill the gap, only to find her covering her mouth in an effort to poorly shroud her giggles. Today, apparently, he had two (well-dressed) pains in his ass to deal with instead of the standard solo perpetrator. Wasn’t it just fitting, considering they hardly acted like twins lately, for them to join forces in order to mock him. Thoroughly exasperated, he turned to Clint and tossed him a pair of keys. “Take your prodigies and get going. Natasha, are you going with them?”

“At the risk of you trying to play dress up Barbie with me before I get a chance to get out of the car, yes, I’ll gladly go with them,” she sighed before following Clint to the car.

“I guess that leaves just you and me, Steve,” Tony ducked his head to conceal what may have been a blush and increased his pace to reach his R8. “I’ll drive.”

Steve ducked into the passenger’s seat and retrieved his sunglasses from the front of his shirt, not particularly keen on the possibility of paparazzi that might assault them all as they arrived. As he slid them on he thought of the motorcycle tucked away in this very garage, just waiting for its designated rider. He grew up in a different time, sure, but he could appreciate when someone deserved a reward. Peter reminded him enough of himself at that age that the youngest Avenger had wormed his way into Cap’s soft spot. Queens and Brooklyn weren’t all that different— neither were scrappy high school students who wanted to do the right things. 

He glanced at Tony as they wove through the streets with ease (fast cars didn’t struggle through traffic, and Tony Stark had no patience for it), reflecting on how different he had become in the last two years. Pepper leaving him had been the start of a certain kind of self-awareness that didn’t seem to be there before. Beyond that, something seemed to have evolved as Tony aged— he seemed to have adopted more paternal traits than he would ever admit. This had been apparent ever since Peter Parker came into the picture, along with all the stumbling sentences and struggling circumstances that came with him. 

He didn’t realize how lost he had been in his own thoughts until Tony shut off the car and tapped his knee.

“Ready?” Stark asked as he slid on his own sunglasses, more for fashion than the functionality Steve had been seeking. 

“Let’s go see the kid make us proud,” Steve agreed, swallowing his other comments roughly before he got into a conversation he wasn’t ready to walk into so blindly. He exited the car quicker than Tony could, striding to the driver’s side in easy steps to open the door. Stark gave him a quizzical look before hopping out and bumping Steve’s hip with his own.

“We have several other misfits to round up,” Tony commented quietly, unable to completely mask his nerves. 

“Then let’s go find them together,” Steve countered, looping his arm around Tony’s shoulders easily and pulling him along through the parking lot. Rather than dwelling on the affectionate side of Steve that had just come out in public (for more than a few seconds, anyway) Tony matched his stride and went along with the objective of finding everyone else. As it turned out, they were the first ones there— made obvious when Tony cringed at Steve’s side as Clint tore into the parking lot. Now was not the time to lecture on how to drive the Camaro. Wanda waved to them, her hair tumbling loose and free around her marbled dress. The bodycon number looked more like it belonged in Nat’s closet than Wanda’s, but if Clint was the surrogate to the twins, that must have made Natasha one by proxy. Pietro looked like he hadn’t run a brush through his hair in a week, but then again that was every day— at least he had bothered to throw on a steel henley and black pants. Natasha must have managed to coax Clint into his current pairing of black v-neck and jeans, which wasn’t really what Tony had asked for, but at least it had sleeves. With a sigh he joined them, mentally taking note of who was here. 

“Wait a minute— where are Barnes and Wilson?”

“They each took their bike. Sam left before anyone else, he’s probably alrea

“Bucky should have been right behind us,” Steve mused, raising his aviators as he studied the intersection. It didn’t take long before Bucky joined them, driving in a more civilized manner than Clint had. Natasha had called Sam and confirmed that he was, in fact, already sitting in their row on the field. 

“Alright, let’s go then,” Clint prompted, turning and taking off in the direction of the football field.

“Hey, Tony— nice outfit,” Pietro chirped before disappearing. 

“What does he mean nice— shit!” Tony had been so busy worrying about everyone else, he hadn’t had five minutes to change his own clothes. Now he was sporting an acid-washed AC/DC shirt and simple blue jeans.

“That’s what you get for being a busybody, Stark,” Bucky called over his shoulder. 

Steve didn’t even try to hide his smile.

* * *

 

“They each took their bike. Sam left before anyone else, he’s probably already out on the field,” Natasha noted.

Nervous didn’t even begin to cover how Peter felt today. Sitting on stage in his cap and gown, all royal blue and looking exactly like everyone else, didn’t really make him nervous. If you had asked him yesterday, before the rehearsal, his tune would have been different— but today, it was all just surreal. Since he had become Spider-Man, everything moved at different speeds and intervals around him. The classroom wasn’t where he felt like he should be, even with a 3.9 GPA and Aunt May’s shining pride. He glanced at the assembled parents and guests, looking for Mister Stark. He spotted him, nestled in the back row and looking almost as discreet as he probably thought he was being. Discreet or not, Peter couldn’t miss him— nor did he miss the other assembled members of the team as he tried to keep his face calm and placid. It looked like everyone had come out to join Mister Stark, but… why? It was just a day, just closing this chapter of his life so he could move on and embrace his purpose, exercise the great responsibility he had felt weighing ever since he put on the suit. 

“Welcome, parents, alumni, family, and friends of our Midtown School of Science and Technology’s graduating class of 2016.” 

Peter turned his head to watch Principal Hughes adjust the microphone before he continued on, leaning on the podium and looking more polished than he had at any other time in Peter’s memory. The crisp navy suit looked odd on him, then again maybe anyone who spent more time in a lab coat and safety glasses would look out of place at a formal event. He thought of his own misgivings about the blue gown he had put on this morning, and realized it wasn’t all bad— he could be in a suit under the 80 degree sun. 

“Ours is not a traditional institution of education. For four years, these students have gained hands on skills and catered their education plans towards their strengths in the very subjects Midtown takes its namesake from— science and technology. I have had the privilege to teach every one of these 100 students at different points in their academic careers, and an even greater privilege to work alongside them as they have sought growth and development in their research. Seeing them go is bittersweet. At some point, we all face transitions in life. Some of these young people will be transitioning to college, others to careers, and still others may have other plans. No matter where they go, this divergence is a step towards fulfilling their adult lives with chasing dreams and seizing goals. I’d like to give them a round of applause, for their dedication and endurance.”

Suddenly one hundred people didn’t seem like that many, and all the of the assembled support in the stadium seating surrounding the football field seemed that much bigger with their eyes all trained on the stage. Peter rubbed his neck, trying to ignore the flush of color to his face as the applause echoed. He couldn’t help glancing up at the assembled Avengers, only to be amazed that they were standing up and stomping their feet louder (or so it seemed) than anyone else. Aunt May, closer to the first row, was wiping her eyes and waving with her own unmatched look of pride. The flushed feeling now reached all the way to his ears, and Peter ducked his head with a coy smile. How had he gone from just a nobody kid from Queens to having this support system, this…family? 

“…Gerard Oxfordson.” 

Watching a classmate cross the stage, he realized diplomas were being dispersed. How long had he zoned out for? It didn’t matter, because O was dangerously close to P, and that meant—

“Peter Parker.”

Peter stood, surprised that his legs felt more sure than his head did as he strode to meet Principal Hughes, accepting the diploma and firm handshake with a smile. Exiting as they had been instructed at rehearsal (down the stairs to meet at the front of the stage in prep for the cap toss), Peter’s eyes kept straining towards the team and Aunt May. Only when the last person took their diploma did he regain focus on the task at hand. This was it— it would all be over in moments. There was no nostalgic tinge, no regrets. Unlike the movies, he was ready, really ready to move on. 

“Please join me in a final farewell to the 2016 graduating class!”

The school song cued in time with the clapping, and they threw their caps, an odd farewell custom to the end of four years. Retrieving the cap from the grass, Peter didn’t linger to say his goodbyes to anyone else. He headed for the seats, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and waving up to everyone, indicating they should come down to meet him. 

Aunt May didn’t need much encouragement, being closest to the field and the only blood relative Peter had left. She was the first set of arms to wrap him in a hug, wiping mascara and tears onto his shoulder as she wept. 

“I’m so proud of you. Your mom, your dad, Uncle Ben… Peter, they would be proud of you too,” May whispered, stroking his hair for a moment before pulling away and wiping her eyes. The team was at the bottom of the stairs, motioning from behind her that they would meet him in a minute before the majority walked towards the other end of the field. Only Tony stayed, hands in the pockets of his jeans as he waited patiently. 

“Thank you, Aunt May,” Peter said sincerely before looking toward Tony and motioning. “Mister Stark!”

Mister Stark still cracked him up— to the world he was Tony Stark, to the team he was Tony or Stark, and yet Peter Parker had adopted what could only be called an old man moniker. Tony approached them, holding his hand out to Peter. 

“Congratulations, Peter.”

“Thank you, Mister Stark,” Peter responded as he shook Tony’s outstretched hand. “Hey, um, if you don’t mind, could you take a picture of Aunt May and I?”

“Of course I can,” Tony smirked as he produced a camera from his pocket. “I figured I would need this. Turns out I was right.”

May grinned, slipping an arm around Peter’s waist as he slung one over her shoulder. The memory would make her happy, as much as he wasn’t a huge fan of pictures. 

“Alright, smile in three, two, annnnd one!” Tony took several shots before dropping his hand to his side, satisfied with his photographic evidence that he had, in fact, made an effort to include Peter’s aunt. As long as no one mentioned the party in front of her, everything should go according to plan. 

“I’m sure you want to go say goodbye to your friends,” May sniffed and dabbed at her eyes once more. “So I’ll see you later, okay?”

Peter let her pull him in for another hug and smiled before she turned and made her way toward the parking lot. He wasn’t expecting Mister Stark to pull him in for his own hug. “Thank you for coming, Mister Stark.”

“One of these days you’ll call me Tony,” Stark laughed as he kept his arm around Peter’s shoulders and guided him towards the rest of the team. “Thank you for having me. For having the whole team, actually— we’re all happy to be here.”

Steve was the first one to break rank as the pair approached, pulling Peter into a firm hug. Bucky nodded to Peter before giving him an awkward one-armed hug and a pat on the shoulder. 

“It feels good, no?” Wanda commented, a faraway look on her face. “Another milestone down— and now you can do whatever you want.”

“All I want is to be part of this team.” The statement came reflexively; there was no hesitation in Peter’s voice, no lingering looks of what-ifs on his face. 

Steve caught Tony’s eye with a serious expression, leaning in until his lips almost touched Tony’s ear. “I’ve told you before— he’s going to be the best out of all of us.”

Leaning in to wrap Steve in an embrace, Tony settled his head in the crook between Steve’s shoulder and neck, watching Peter talk to the twins and Clint. He didn’t know what to do with overwhelming emotions, even the positive ones. In the two years since he had approached Peter, Tony Stark had developed a slew of emotions he hadn’t felt since he and Pepper had gone their separate ways— and some he didn’t know he could feel. Watching him fight alongside the team evoked pride, sure, but it also paired with something that Stark could only define as genuine fear. He had never looked at another person and knew without a single wavering doubt that he would do anything to protect them, that he could love so fiercely, nor act so recklessly in the name of another person’s well being. Clint picked that moment, Tony wrapped comfortably around Steve and watching Peter, to look right at him. If it had been anyone else, Stark may have stiffened or looked away— instead, he met Barton’s gaze with every unspoken emotion that he was puzzling out. Steve slipped his arm around Tony’s waist in unknowing tandem to the moment Clint looked away, eyes cutting to Pietro and Wanda before nodding. The answer was as unspoken as the questions; those feelings come without warning, they aren’t fleeting, and they don’t fade.

Sam cleared his throat and gestured to Tony. “Stark, I know you brought a camera, why don’t we get some pictures?”

Tony slipped away from Steve and nodded, tossing the camera to Sam without complaint or any sarcasm. “Sure. Who’s first with the graduate?”

Peter flushed and rubbed the back of his neck, not used to the attention being on him. “Uh, probably me, right?”

Natasha smirked as she sidestepped Pietro to stand with Peter, sticking her tongue out at Clint’s befuddled expression. Giving Sam a nod, she nudged Peter to cue posing— he looked largely conflicted about the prospect of a slew of pictures, but obliged by smiling as Sam pressed the shutter. Clint had successfully inched around them, unknown to Peter but (most likely) just being selectively ignored by Nat, he stretched between them and pointed at Sam. Enthusiastic bunny ears went up around Peter and Nat’s heads as Sam struggled to keep a straight face and held up a finger to hold them there for another. 

“Tony, Steve, get over here,” Nat called, nonchalantly kicking Clint in the shin as she spoke. “Preferably before I have to use force.”

“I can’t believe you’re all here,” Peter blurted as he looked around. “Except… where’s Doctor Banner?”

Tony opened and closed his mouth a few times, sighing in frustration, before the question was answered for him. 

“Bruce would have been here, but he… Doesn’t always do well in crowds,” Bucky supplied, gesturing at the still-present clump of people at the other end of the football field.

“O-oh, I should have known…” Peter muttered, looking at the grass. “Sorry, I— well, I actually forget about that most of the time. He’s just Doctor Banner to me, not anyone else.”

With Steve’s arm wrapped around Peter’s chest, Tony propped an elbow on Peter’s shoulder as they looked at Sam, ready for him to take the picture. Natasha nodded her approval of the pose, tipping her head to the side as she took her own read on the situation. Bucky and Sam took their turn soon after, with Tony taking the photo this time. Wanda had no problem posing with Peter, but convincing a very bored Pietro took a stern glare from Natasha. Tony checked the time and gestured towards the parking lot. 

“Everyone ready to go?” he prompted, already counting heads to make sure no one had wandered. 

“Ready for what, Mister Stark?” Peter looked genuinely confused while everyone else around him murmured consent. 

“You didn’t think you’d get to hit a major life milestone, your first one with this team, without a celebration did you?” Clint crowed.

“Come on, Peter— you’re going to be late for your own party,” Steve winked and gestured for him to follow, slipping his hand in Tony’s as they headed to the car.


	3. Congrats, Grad.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's graduation party is full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to h34rt1lly for being my beta. This was a fun, feel-good chapter. I hope you all enjoy!

Peter had been surprised enough that  _ the _ Tony Stark had announced they were going to his graduation party, but if he had been surprised by that news alone, then he was outright flabbergasted when they got to the Tower. Bruce was waiting for them, nestled on the couch with a book in hand. Before he could process that information, Peter took a breath and smelled what really seemed to be fried chicken, although there was no clue to what the food was other than covered trays on the counter. The east-facing windows allowed for plenty of light, with the mid-day sun illuminating decorations. What appeared to be hand-painted (scratch that, hand-calligraphy) signs puzzled him with their messages. ‘Congratulations’ was obvious enough, but ‘Welcome Home’ seemed incorrect— although it was entirely possible someone had just gotten back from a mission… Peter shook his head slightly and waved to Bruce, sinking onto the couch beside him. 

“Doctor Banner, how are you?”

Bruce set his book on the arm, smiling at the formality and respect that always clung to Peter (so unlike Tony). “Better now that I can say congratulations. I’m glad you’re here, Peter.”

“JARVIS, as rehearsed?” Tony called out from the kitchen.

“Yes, Sir,” JARVIS confirmed before music started to play, along with a slide-show of photos that appeared to range from Peter’s very first mission up to that afternoon. 

“Tony, how did you already get the pictures from—” Steve started, only to be interrupted by Stark. 

“Come on, Capsicle, I thought by now I would have gotten you up to speed enough to understand bluetooth compatibility!”

It didn’t take long for everyone else to trickle in, each giving Peter an explanation of their part in the party-prep as they came. He learned that Natasha and Wanda, along with somehow Pietro and Bruce, had been in charge of the decorations— Nat and Wanda being in charge filled in blanks regarding the red color scheme. Meanwhile Clint and Sam had been handling the food. Tony and JARVIS had taken care of the pictures and music. He wondered where that left Steve and Tony, but really it was of no consequence; the entire experience was so surreal and unexpected. Peter piled his plate with fried chicken, pretzels, sliders, and tacos (while wondering how much of this had really been Sam’s idea) and lost himself for a moment in the feeling of comfort he found in this moment. There was no mission, no homework, no pressure clinging to him tighter than his suit ever could— there was just… family. Family beyond a tiny two-bedroom that he and Aunt May could barely afford as amazing enough. All of the glamour that came with being a part of the Stark circle, being an Avenger, well that was just an unexpected bonus. He didn’t need anything beyond the murmur of these familiar voices as he sunk into the couch, the beats of a song he knew but couldn’t quite place, and the proud smiles every time he made eye contact with Tony. 

Steve and Bucky joined him, each taking a side to eat in companionable small talk for a while. Peter didn’t know how long it had been, but he was pulled from his haze by Clint clearing his throat. 

“I think it’s time for presents!” 

Pietro feigned a groan, disappearing just long enough for Wanda to steal his spot on the ottoman and returning with a silver-encased box. He flipped it at Peter, who grabbed it with a glob of webbing, causing Bruce to smile as he looked on from his spot against the wall. 

“Well, go on, open it you show off!” Pietro whined, bouncing his knee rapidly against Peter’s. “I picked it! I mean— with Wanda’s help.”

“No, Peter, don’t let him fool you— this was all his idea, I just signed off on it,” she chuckled and winked, leaning forward to watch. 

Not even bothering to contain his skepticism of a Maximoff-selected gift (add that to the list of things he did not expect today), Peter tore at the paper— only to find a plain cake-style white box. Natasha snickered, completely enthused with watching this play out. 

“Is there a glitter bomb in here? Pietro, I swear, I will—”

“You’ll what? I can outrun you!”

“IT WON’T MATTER HOW FAST YOU ARE IF I OPEN THIS AND GET COVERED IN GLITTER!”

“If only I had known of that before, I would have tested your threat.”

“Just open the box!” Wanda clapped her hands, tired of the suspense, and glared in her best impression of a referee. “Or I’ll make sure Clint eats your dessert— both of you!”

“Knowing Clint dessert is hot wings,” Peter lobbied a ball of wrapping paper at her before he lifted the lid to the box. “Or something equally— woah.” 

Pietro straightened, peering at Peter’s expression as he lifted a round object out of the box. Peter let the box fall to the floor, forgotten in his awe of what had been inside it. A globe, completely made of cork, with a few pins attached to the surface. One, in New York, was red, while the smattering of others were blue. 

“Are those…” Peter’s words lodged in his throat, running his fingers over each pin before he looked back up at the twins.

“Every location we’ve gone on a mission— all of us together, since you joined the team. You can add more, as they come up. That’s why I picked the cork,” Pietro supplied, ducking his head slightly toward Wanda. “Wanda picked the color scheme, though.”

“It matches your suit. This seemed like a no brainer,” she waved off the compliment from her brother, wanting him to take credit for his idea. 

“You like?” Pietro asked quietly.

“This— I— I’ve never seen one before, with the cork. I’ve seen pins on a flat map but… This is really cool. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Wanda could have sworn she saw (or felt— twin bond and all that) Pietro blush, but she chose not to bring it up, allowing him the pride in picking a solid gift to be enough for now. Natasha picked up a slim box from a corner table and handed it to Peter. 

“My gift is in the same vein. Hope you like it.”

Peter opened the meticulous slate grey wrapping, typical of Natasha to do everything in style, and unearthed the gift; a leather cover photo book lay nestled in the box, displaying the team insignia embossed on the cover. The pages held pictures that hadn’t been on the slide show, though he suspected that was on purpose, and many had clearly been taken with their com set ups during missions, or post-mission in helicarriers. It highlighted their strengths when they were together— completely together, not just before Peter had shown up, which he occasionally feared but never expressed. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he met Nat’s eyes before she shook her head. The look on his face told her all she needed to know, and for that he was overflowing with gratitude. 

“Enough sap— where are the fun presents?” Sam called sarcastically. 

This was just enough to allow everyone a moment to laugh, tossing discarded gift wrap in Sam’s general direction. 

“I wanted to get you a puppy—” Clint began before glaring at Tony, “—but SOMEONE thought Lucky was enough in this enormous and underpopulated tower, so that was vetoed.”

“Awe, come on Mister Stark, I like that idea!”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, afraid of that exact answer, before rolling his eyes and pointing at Clint. “I have a feeling you’ll enjoy the alternative he came up with— without my consent.”

Clint had disappeared before Peter could listen to the end of Tony’s statement, and he was thoroughly puzzled by what could be an alternative to a puppy. Although, with this lot, who really knew—

“SURPRISE!”

Barton had reappeared with a relatively small box that had what appeared to be air-holes on the top of it. Peter looked around for guidance, and was met with only shrugs, along with (surprisingly) Bucky mouthing ‘open it’, before he knelt on the floor and peered at the box cautiously. 

“I’m still not convinced there isn’t a glitter bomb somewhere,” Peter muttered, lifting the lid of the box. “Okay not a—”

“Look inside, Underoos,” Tony chuckled, relenting that this particular gift was happening whether he wanted it to or not. 

Peter couldn’t see anything at first. He cautiously stuck his hand into the box, feeling around for any sign of what it was. Something soft and warm met his fingertips, and he looked at Clint in utter confusion before sticking his face next to the box. There was certainly an alternative to a puppy— apparently, in the eyes of Clint Barton and Tony Stark, a smaller (and quieter) furry creature sufficed. He lifted out one of the smallest kittens he had ever seen, absolute astonishment not hidden from his face. He pulled the blinking kitten close to his chest, really looking at it as he settled against the couch to stare in wonder. A seal-point Siamese looked back at him with blue eyes, purring and nestling under his chin. 

“You… This… Is this really mine?” Peter whispered, not taking his eyes off of the cat. Aunt May was allergic, and they had always been too tight on funds without adding another mouth to feed. Growing up like that, he had never had time to even really consider a pet. Now, he had one sitting on his chest acting like he was the most natural match in the room. 

“You bet she is. I thought you might want something to be responsible for, without all that homework,” Clint laughed, kneeling to pet Peter’s smallest gift. “I thought about taking you to pick one out yourself, but, well. One thing lead to another.”

“That’s okay. She’s... more than I could have ever expected. This whole day has been,” Peter said sincerely, looking at Clint before leaning to give him a tight hug. “Thank you. I didn’t know how much I wanted this until… well, until I saw her. Wow, I guess I need to name her, right?”

“You don’t have to decide on a name right now,” Steve commented from his chair. “Might take a while to find the right one.”

Peter just nodded in agreement, rubbing the spot between her ears without further comment. Bruce looked a little guilty, picking up his box and crossing the room to set it beside Peter. Instead of retreating, he settled next to him, gesturing that he would open it. Lifting out what appeared to be a complex coffee maker, he rubbed his neck, smiling apologetically. 

“Clint made that a tough act to follow but, uh. Here. I made it myself, programmed to respond to JARVIS or voice commands. It makes coffee, tea, espresso— really a variety. I noticed you drink a lot of those and thought it might be nice.”

Truth be told, Peter hadn’t been expecting a gift from Bruce at all. His quiet friendship was enough, and always had been, in a way that comforted Peter more than many of the others did. What didn’t surprise him was the thought put into Bruce’s gift. Whenever Dr. Banner had let him hang around the lab (for personal interest or for help with his homework), they always drank tea. Peter would come to the Tower frequently with Starbucks or some other variety of coffee in hand, when he could afford it, and no one else had even commented on it. Bruce had picked up on it and made it better, completely personal and wonderful in the way he did everything else. Peter reached out and touched his hand, then gestured to the drink maker. 

“Thank you. You know me really well, Dr. Banner,” he affirmed sincerely.

“Bruce,” Banner replied with the same kind of look Tony got when Peter would say ‘Mister Stark’, laughing. “You’re welcome.”

Sam tapped a silver-wrapped gift on the table and nodded towards it. 

“Let me show you this one— she doesn’t look like she’s ready to move yet,” referring to the kitten purring under Peter’s chin. 

Carefully bringing the box over to the ottoman, Sam perched on the corner and opened the box, looking at Peter’s face as he opened the lid. Inside was a lap desk, perfect for reading or using electronics in bed or even on the couch. Peter smiled, grateful for ever-practical Sam, before furrowing his brow as Sam laughed.

“You didn’t think I’d get you just that, did you?” He lifted the lapdesk and the peace of packing foam it had fit neatly within before lifting out another object. 

“That’s not—”

“Oh, yes, it is. What good is a lap desk with nothing to use it on?” Sam laughed, tilting a matte black Stark Tech laptop towards him. “And as Tony tells it, this is the fastest on the market. No need to build onto it— though I know you could.”

Peter couldn’t help but cover his face for a moment, overwhelmed with how much he had been given today. The thought that had been tailored into every gift that had been placed before him was nothing short of incredible, not to mention unexpected. The team often made jabs about being a dysfunctional family, but today, he could see how much they thrived under that moniker. Inducting him one step further into the family they had built seemed to come so naturally; the fact that they weren’t obligated to partake in any of this celebration made the whole thing that much more awe-inspiring. Rubbing the inner corners of his eyes, Peter looked up at Sam and clasped a hand on his knee (the closest body part he could reach.)

“You didn’t have to do that, Sam.”

“You’re right. But I wanted to. I’m proud of you, man,” Sam kept eye contact, sounding just a bit bashful as he spoke. “We all are.”

“Well,” Bucky stood and nudged Peter with his foot, nodding towards Clint. “You might want to give your precious cargo to him for a minute. Our present,” he gestured towards Steve, “isn’t on this floor.”

Far past the point of guesses or trying to solve the cryptic puzzle, Peter stood and carefully handed his kitten to Clint. The small creature gave a mewl of protest and latched a claw in Peter’s shirt, unwilling to completely let go. He gave a bright smile, whether to Clint or the kitten (or both) was unclear, and carefully detached her before giving her a soft scratch on the head. He turned to follow Bucky, Steve, and Tony into the elevator. 

* * *

 

As the elevator let them off back in the garage, Peter was disoriented. They had only been here a couple of hours. Bucky had mentioned his gift wasn’t on this floor, hadn’t he? Maybe that meant they were going to go get something. Everyone had already given him so much today, there honestly didn’t seem like anything else that he could possibly need or even want. Steve and Bucky strode off deeper into the garage and Peter realized how long he had been standing there musing to himself. Tony was somewhere between them, looking back at Peter with a bemused expression. He jogged to catch up with Tony, matching his stride until they caught up with the pair of super-soldiers. 

“Have you ever been on a motorcycle, Pete?” Steve asked casually, glancing down at Peter as he spoke. 

“Um, no, I can’t say I have,” Peter answered, unable to hide the slightly dejected tone in his voice. “But I’ve always wanted to. I mean, who hasn’t?”

Bucky exchanged a look with Steve that Peter couldn’t quite read, which just made this whole excursion that much more confusing. Was Steve going to take him out on his bike? That would be a hell of a present. Knowing Cap and Bucky both had them made it a logical conclusion— either that or they were just making small talk as they walked. 

“W’dya think of this one?” Bucky pointed just ahead at a black bike, difficult to see in the dark.

“J, light it up,” Tony called out. The lights amplified, allowing a better view of the bike in question. 

“Is that a Honda CB1000R?” Peter asked excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet before getting up close for a better look. The satin black was sleek and looked like something straight out of a street race, but as he shifted he noticed accents of cherry pearl metallic that elevated the appearance to something much more custom and expensive.  All of the standard hardware had been powder coated to some sort of diamond finish, pulling the satin and metallic finishes together nicely. “Custom? European import?”

“Both, actually. Originally a Euro import, but with a custom repaint,” Bucky said with a smug look towards Tony. He was met with a friendly middle finger, unnoticed by the teenager marveling at the motorcycle.

“This is way nicer than anything I’ve ever been close to. Which one of you got it? I thought you both had bikes?” Peter looked between Steve and Bucky, still awe-struck.

“Neither of us did,” Steve replied, looking over at Bucky. “Or both of us, I guess. We both picked it out.”

“Then whose is it?”

“Yours, kid,” Bucky answered with a smile, pulling the key fob from his pocket. 

“WHAT?!” Peter had been maintaining calm all day long, but this was too much. He was clearly hallucinating. “Okay, someone is due to pinch me. Seriously, a cool dream, but I need to go graduate. I’m ready to wake up.”

Bucky shrugged, reaching out and pinching Peter’s arm as requested. 

“OW. That wasn’t even your metal arm and it still hurt!”

“You asked to be pinched!” Barnes deflected.

“No tricks. They even ran it past me,” Tony finally spoke up. “But there are rules. For starters, you need to have Heckle and Jeckle over there teach you to ride it.”

At this point Peter was practically glowing, looking back at the bike again. His obvious shock and elation almost replaced the paranoia Tony had about putting an eighteen year old (albeit not an average one) on a two-wheeled death trap in New York City.

“So this is seriously mine?” Peter gaped once more, looking between the three men like he was going to explode in his excitement. The kid was practically vibrating. Not knowing who to thank first, he stood in front of the three of them and pulled them into a group hug (possibly the only person on the planet brave enough to group hug a super-soldier, a deadly assassin, and Iron Man simultaneously) and laughed in pure joy. “This is the coolest present I’ve ever heard of. I can’t believe this is mine. I— thank you. So much.”

Steve wrapped his arm around Peter in response, reciprocating the hug and pulling Bucky in closer. Barnes, on the other hand, looked completely befuddled as he let Steve pull him that much closer to his side and Peter. Tony slung a friendly arm around Bucky and the other around Peter, letting him have his moment that would probably never repeat. 

“Hey, let’s go back up to everyone else for now. You have all the time in the world for a motorcycle,” Tony said as he disentangled from the group.

“I… Yeah, let’s go!” Peter jogged towards the elevator ahead of them, turning to beckon them faster.

* * *

 

The floor they stepped out on was dark, throwing Peter for a loop as he wondered how long they had been in the garage with his new bike. His new bike— he couldn’t believe he had just thought that, let alone had it happen to him. Steve and Bucky were in for a lifetime of thank yous each time they taught him to ride. In any case, he looked to Tony in confusion. 

“Were we gone that long?”

“No, not really. J, lights?”

“As you wish, Sir,” JARVIS answered before the lights came on to reveal the floor.

“This… have I seen this floor before?” Peter was puzzled, but the day had been anything but normal, so it really shouldn’t have been too surprising that one more thing was out of order. 

“Ah, no. This floor was just renovated, actually. Guys?” Tony called out. “You wanna come help me explain?”

The rest of the team came through a doorway that appeared to lead into a den or living room, including Clint toting the kitten in his arms. When she noticed Peter, she let out a small mewl and nipped at Clint’s fingers. He chuckled and crossed the room to hand her to Peter as everyone else oriented themselves around the foyer. 

“Peter… I know you love your Aunt May. She’s taken exceptional care of you under the circumstances she’s had to endure. I also know that the apartment you two share is, um, quaint,” Tony spoke softly, but no one else in the room made a sound. A rare occurrence around here, it was easy for Stark’s voice to carry as he made eye contact with Peter.

“It’s small, you can say that, Mister Stark,” Peter muttered as he settled his kitten against his chest. “She does her best, but I know it isn’t the Tower or anything.”

“No, it isn’t,” Stark agreed gently. “Since it isn’t the Tower, I thought you might want the same opportunity everyone else has.”

“Opportunity?” Peter stopped stroking his new friend’s head, looking at Tony in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’re an Avenger, Peter. The rest of the Avengers, as you know, each have their own floor. And, if you want it, now you do too. I had this remodeled for you— to live here, with privacy.”

Peter nearly dropped his kitten then, staring at Tony slack-jawed and silent. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, eyes welling with tears at the sincerity he saw in Mister Stark’s face. He lowered the kitten to the floor, who trotted off in the general direction of Clint, before all-out running across the room to embrace Tony. He was crying, pressing his face into Stark’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around his back. Tony hugged him back immediately, rubbing circles across Pete’s shoulders and letting him have his time to collect his thoughts. 

“Thank you, Tony,” was all Peter managed to say, his voice muffled in Tony’s Metallica shirt. 

“Welcome home, Peter,” the collected Avengers called out softly. Natasha took a picture, observant as ever, and Wanda wiped her eyes. She remembered what it felt like to gain a family after so long without anyone but her brother. Pietro caught her expression and reached out to squeeze her hand wordlessly, understanding why she was overwhelmed. Clint slid down the wall to pull the kitten into his lap and patted the space beside him for Nat to sit down. Unbeknownst to all of them as they looked on, JARVIS had taken a picture of the scene— of the family gathered in the room. Family wasn’t always about blood. More often than not, it was about choice— and they had all chosen, in one way or another, to be here. In this moment, they were bonded in a way no one could ever them from them. The Avengers didn’t just represent a word for a facade— it was another word for a family.    



	4. I Went To Hell & Back... And I Went With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Steve need to learn to communicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the song "Heart Shaped Wreckage" from the TV show Smash (which NBC rudely cancelled), and seemed fitting for these two. 
> 
> Buckle up for feels and angst! 
> 
> As always, thank you to h34rt1lly for being my trusted beta. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy and thanks for sticking with me so far!

A week had passed since Peter’s graduation. He had moved into the Tower rather quickly, citing that he was living with “roommates” to his Aunt May (which, though not entirely a bold-faced lie, wasn’t much in way of the truth) when he had shown up for his things. Armed with two thermoses of tea, one for himself and one for Bruce, he strode into the lab comfortably. Peter found Bruce in his sub-section, working on the AI aspect of Wanda’s still-secret sparring bots. Peter placed a thermos of London Fog next to him before settling on the other side of the table with his own chai latte, peering intently at the screen Bruce was studying. Realizing he was not alone, presumably having been engrossed in his work, Bruce peered over the top of his glasses and waved at Peter. 

“Brought you a London Fog, Dr. Banner,” Peter noted brightly, his eyes still on the screen. Playback of Wanda and Pietro in the gym looped, Pietro narrowly missing her blasts of energy. “What are you working on here?”

“Must be liking that graduation present,” Bruce smiled warmly at the thermos and tipped it towards his younger counterpart in thanks. “Wanda has been getting frustrated, and nervous, about sparring with Pietro for some time. He’s realistically too fast for her training to be practical, but he thinks she’s holding back with fear that she might hurt him. I’ve been designing her sparring bots. Right now, I’m working on the AI interface— part of it needs to be movement predictability, so the bots can efficiently learn to evade. That,” he pointed to the playback screen, “is the start. I have had JARVIS monitoring them in the gym the past few weeks, and I finally have enough of her movements and patterns to do introductory programming.”

Peter tapped his chin, intent on Bruce’s project, before taking a sip of his own drink. “Are you planning to reprogram them later on, when she’s had time to practice with them? I would assume they’ll be built, frame-wise, to take quite a bit of hits before you need to service them.”

Bruce nodded, pressing pause and swiveling to face Peter as he spoke. “Yes. The predictability is something I’ll have to self-assess, so the bots will be recording movement patterns during their spar sessions— similar to what Tony has JARVIS do in the suit, but without the ability to do graduated movement. It isn’t as sophisticated of a system, admittedly, but… I don’t want to breed a repeat of Ultron. What’s a little more work to avoid that?” He shrugged before returning to his drink, eyes tracing the table. 

Peter frowned thoughtfully at the mention of Ultron, dragging his finger over condensation lines on his cup. “Couldn’t you safety-net it with only movement-related hardware, but not self-awareness?”

Bruce shook his head as Tony came into the lab, sitting down beside them. “We tried that,” he input, startling Bruce. “Anything to deal with battle-movement awareness runs a certain…risk. JARVIS is a completely different system from a standard bot, and going exemplary from him is how we ended up with Ultron. The bot would have to be aware enough to spar without harm, and only spar directed at Wanda, while still being able to build up a database as Wanda improves. Entirely too much trust in a single AI, at the moment, until we know how this one performs. Maybe down the road.”

“Can I help?” Peter asked, gesturing towards the screen. “Or, watch? This isn’t something we covered in school, so I don’t know how much help I’d be but…”

“Of course you can,” Bruce laughed. “If you’re not going to college, might as well make sure you’re furthering you’re education.” 

Peter beamed, scooting closer to observe Bruce as he resumed his work. Tony laughed, watching them for a moment as he reflected on the fact that he was surrounded by people more like himself than he usually admitted. 

“Sir, Captain Rogers is on his way down,” JARVIS announced quietly.

“Thank you, J. Any idea what he wants?”

“His intentions are not clear, Sir, but he appears to be in a pleasant mood.”

Tony snorted and turned his head in time to see Steve pulling open the glass door to the lab, raising a hand to acknowledge Tony’s gaze. Steve stopped beside Tony’s chair, smiling at him, which just left Stark further perplexed about why he was down there. “Steve— what can we do for you?” Tony asked cheekily, knowing full well Bruce and Peter weren’t paying any attention to them.

“Thought I’d find you working on something, not snooping on Bruce— oh, and Peter?” Steve raised an eyebrow. “Regardless, I came down to ask if you wanted to go get lunch, or coffee. I haven’t seen you much this week.”

Tony stood and stretched, his spine audibly popping a few times, before he looked up (though he’d never acknowledge their height difference) at Steve’s face. “This sounds suspiciously like a date, Rogers.”

Steve smirked and caught Tony’s fingers with his, lacing them before he answered. “Your suspicions might be correct, Stark.”

“We’re right here, you know,” Bruce muttered without turning around, tapping the screen with his stylus.

Either not hearing them or choosing to ignore Bruce’s comment, Tony tapped his foot and feigned indifference. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I’m clearly so busy with work.” He swept his arm around his unoccupied (and powered-down) half of the lab in emphasis. “But I do enjoy coffee…” 

Steve kicked at Tony’s shoe with his sneaker, his eyes teasing and fingers still holding on to Tony’s. “I promise we’ll go to that Australian place you like. Hole in the Wall, right?”

Tony beamed, nodding enthusiastically and tugging Steve towards the door. “Now you have my attention. I’m game.”

Peter turned his head to take in the sight of them, chuckling. “It’s great to see you both so happy. How long have you been together, officially? No one tells me anything.” 

Tony stopped tugging on Steve’s hand but didn’t release his grip, furrowing his brow. “Together?”

Peter flushed, eyes wide as he looked to Bruce with a silent question of ‘What the hell did I do?’ Bruce shrugged, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face. This was bound to happen eventually, especially after the mess Pepper had left in her wake. He wasn’t sure that Tony would know a relationship if it bit him in the face, let alone a potentially healthy one. Waving his glasses at their joined hands, Bruce cleared his throat and looked to Steve for some input. “I think you’ve made it clear to most of us that you’ve been… spending a lot of time together.” 

Steve looked down at their joined hands before looking back to Bruce and Peter. “I— We— Yes, we’ve been spending some time together—”

“People can’t hold hands in the twenty-first century without being together?” Tony interjected, dropping Steve’s hand as he squared his shoulders and looked at Bruce. Peter’s flush had crept to his ears as he sank further into his hoodie (and chair), avoiding Tony’s aggravated gaze and already regretting his inquiry. 

“Wait a minute, why are you saying it like that?” Steve crossed his arms, staring at Tony. “Is there something wrong with us being together?” 

Tony stared at him, not understanding the question. “Saying it like what, exactly? How am I saying it?”

Steve huffed, his patience for this conversation in front of two other people growing thin. “You’re acting like spending time together and holding hands doesn’t mean anything. Or, worse, embarrasses you. Thought I was supposed to be the ‘old-fashioned’ one?”

“Jesus, Steve, when you say it like that you make me sound homophobic!” Stark snapped. “I was just noting that I think I would know if we were in some sort of relationship!”

“And I thought I would know if we weren’t.”

Bruce let his head fall back against the chair, Steve’s words hanging heavily in the now-suffocatingly small space of the lab. Peter held his breath, looking up through his lashes at Steve and Tony, body language aggressive and eyes burning. He frankly wasn’t sure if they were going to kiss or punch each other, and wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around to find out, considering he was the one who had sparked whatever was happening right now. Still, leaving wasn’t really an option— they were standing directly in front of the only door, and the tension was palpable. 

“You know what, Tony? Forget the coffee. I wouldn’t want to take it as something it isn’t, since it’s the twenty-first century,” Steve spat, turning to leave with a sigh. 

“Fine. Maybe you’ll find out what it is while you’re avoiding me,” Tony growled back at him, pushing past him to get to the elevator. “The twenty-first century hasn’t blessed you with any comprehension of communication,” Stark threw over his shoulder before stepping in and muttering something to JARVIS before the doors closed.

* * *

 

“Bucky?” Steve hollered as he opened the door to the gym. He hadn’t found his friend on his own floor or the common one, which only left one safe assumption: the gym. Bucky wasn’t one to go out without mentioning it to someone, probably more on the principal that he didn’t want panicked phone calls from Steve (or anyone else, at Steve’s beckon) for not touching base. 

“Steve? I thought you left,” Bucky called from the other end of the room, wrapping his flesh-hand in prep for the punching bag. Seeing Steve’s expression, he frowned. “Clearly you didn’t leave, but you didn’t look like that earlier.”

Steve threw his jacket on the floor and walked past Bucky to row of storage cubes along the back wall before shucking his pants and pulling on a pair of shorts. “Really observant, Buck. You intent on the bag or are you going to spar with me?”

Bucky considered the venom in Steve’s voice, paired with the tension in his movements, before he sighed and tossed the tape at his best friend. Obviously there wasn’t going to be much talking before Steve worked out his anger— better with someone who could match him serum-to-serum than someone else. He watched Steve’s quick and careless wraps before crossing the mat to do it for him. “You’re going to hurt yourself, for God’s sake, you’ve done this before. You can make the scrappy kid from Brooklyn into a superior soldier, but he’ll still be piss and vinegar raring for trouble won’t he?” Bucky tapped Steve’s hand to indicate he was done and clicked his tongue in mock-annoyance. 

“Apparently you can’t take the sass out of the Brooklyn boy, either,” Steve said flippantly before yanking off his sneakers. “Always protecting lil’ old Stevie.”

“Maybe if my pal Stevie did anything to protect himself, I wouldn’t have to,” Barnes grumbled. Without warning, a fist came towards him— ducking and rolling to the side, Bucky glared at Steve. “Just because you’re mad doesn’t mean we stop sparring fair and square, Rogers.”

“Yes, Mom,” Steve mocked, taking his place on the mat. “Count off and hit me before we find out how unfair I can play.”

It went on like that the entire spar; Steve making minimal effort to veil his aggression and Bucky making just as little effort to not lecture. Eventually Bucky’s speed won out over Steve’s size as he pinned him, twisting Steve’s arm behind his back until he tapped. Rolling off of Steve’s back, Bucky began unrolling his wrap. “Tell me what happened. You don’t fight like that over nothing.”

“It is nothing,” Steve muttered, still laying on the mat where Bucky had left him. “I mean, it’s obviously nothing. Not like I’m in a relationship or anything.”

“Come again?” 

“Was I not clear enough? There can’t be an issue if there isn’t a relationship.”

“I was under the distinct impression there was a relationship, what with you and Stark parading around all doe-eyed like a couple of dames,” Bucky snorted, pulling his knees to his chest and studying Steve’s current impression of a dead fish on the gym mat. He nudged Steve with his toes, met with only a grumble. “Hey, no. You’re going to talk to me if it means I have to flip you over and sit on you until you look at me.”

Steve pushed himself up on his elbows with an exasperated sigh, glaring daggers at Barnes like he had just asked if Steve would voluntarily have an asthma attack. “Who said I wanted to talk? To you or anyone else? God, for being 70 years older, you sure act exactly the same when you want your way, Barnes.”

“Goddamnit Steve, you didn’t need to say it. You came in here spitting acid, which I can now deduce has something to do with Tony Stark, and took a swing at my head. You’re going to talk to me about this, even if I can’t help you, even if I don’t have a single insight-- we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Now tell me what the hell happened!”

“Fine. You want to know what happened? What trouble your scrappy friend has gotten himself in this time so you can come to the rescue?” Steve raised his eyebrow as Bucky opened his mouth to protest, holding up a hand to stop him. “No, you want me to talk, I’m going to talk without you interrupting me. I wanted to take Tony on a date— nothing fancy, just to get coffee. He was in the lab with Peter and Bruce when I asked him to come. Peter asked us how long we had been together. I had no idea how to answer, but apparently, we are not together. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Ironic, considering that’s exactly what the horse is— straight. I should have known this would happen, but have I ever listened? No.”

“I can hear it in your voice that isn’t what you really think, Steve,” Bucky said gently, scooting over to Steve and shoving him to sit up. “C’mere. Sit with me and let’s figure this out.”

“What are we going to figure out?” Steve asked softly, sitting up and leaning into Bucky’s metal shoulder. “About my liking a guy? About how the guy I like only likes women? Where do you want to start, Buck, because I’m tired of it already.”

“Hey— you know what, if it was still 1943, I might mention those things to keep you safe. But now? It doesn’t matter, Steve. It’s legal. My opinion is as irrelevant now as it would have been then, anyways. You’re going to feel what you’re going to feel. That isn’t a choice.”

“Why does it sound like you have experience in this?” Steve mumbled from his position pressed against Bucky. 

Bucky actually laughed then, looking down at the top of Steve’s head. “You know how many fellas asked me about you when you were the ‘star-spangled man with a plan’ back then? I had to have some answers, and I came to those answers on my own. Look, I may only like dames, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to crucify my best friend for every man that asks after him— or that he makes those ridiculous doe-eyes at. I’ve never seen you look at anyone, not even Peggy, the way you’ve looked at Stark the past few months. What good would it do to disagree? Knowing you, it would just make you chase him even more. You don’t like being told ‘no,’ never have.”

Steve was honest-to-goodness shocked at Bucky’s monologue. It wasn’t that he outright assumed that Bucky had a problem with people being gay, but he did assume that Barnes might have some discomfort about his best friend being gay. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he was gay, as it were. “I didn’t dislike Peggy, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Never said you did. You never got much of a chance with her, though. Who’s to say you would have been happy? It doesn’t matter if it had been Peggy, or if it’s Stark, or hell, it could be the bulky blond God! What I see is you caring about someone, who I’m beginning to hear you doubt cares about you. Am I hearing you right, Stevie?” Bucky’s voice was gentle, quieter than it had been when they first started talking. 

“I… I don’t know right now, Buck. He said he would know if he was in a relationship. He hasn’t been in one since… Well, not since Pepper. You weren’t around for that, but he wasn’t the same after they split up. He loved her, or at least, it sure seemed like he did. That’s the thing— he loved HER. He was ruined without HER. And, finally, I think he’s getting over it only to be right back to square one— second guessing if I could ever measure up to the girl that walked away.”

Bucky sat up straighter, grabbing Steve by the chin to make him as he spoke. “If you think for one minute that you are less because you have a dick, you think again. I’ve seen the fucking way he looks at you—”

“Language, Bucky—”

“No, don’t you pull that shit on me. Steven Grant Rogers, I do not give a shit that you like a guy, and you shouldn’t give a shit that he used to love a woman. He looks at you like he’s seeing the sun for the first goddamn time in his life. You act like a moth to a flame whenever you’re around him. If the two of you let a simple miscommunication ruin that, you’re going to regret it forever. Is that what you want? To leave this in pieces on the lab floor just because you two never talked about what to label this?” 

Steve shifted and pressed his face to Bucky’s chest, his shoulders slumping. “No. Of course not. He makes me feel like it’s worth working toward something, for the first time since I woke up from the ice. That I could build something with him— for him— around him. I want to impress him and watch him smile, blush, and hear him laugh. I like surprising him. I want… To fix whatever happened down there.”

“Then go fix it, Stevie,” Bucky muttered as he patted his best friend’s shoulder. “You’re as stubborn as the day is long. He’ll have to hear you out, at least.”

“How am I supposed to fix it if I’m always going to wonder if he’ll drop me when the next gorgeous woman comes along?” Steve felt the familiar prick of tears in his eyes and didn’t bother to wipe them away. Bucky had seen a helluva lot worse than this.

“Steve, one day you’re going to have to stop living in the 40s. You and I have gotten a chance that no one else in this century has. We’ve gotten to keep going when there should have been an end to our stories. With that comes complications. There are risks, confusion, and struggle. But damn it, you hard-headed idiot, what the hell do you think a relationship is? He could leave you for anyone, no matter what parts they’re sporting. Hell, you could leave him too, for that matter. Tomorrow isn’t fucking promised Steve, especially for someone who wasn’t supposed to live to see today. There was a risk you might not make it through every damn Brooklyn winter, a risk that serum or Howard’s machine could have killed you, and a very real likelihood that you would die when you crashed that plane. You took all of those risks. Why not try one that only benefits you for a change?”

Steve sat up, wiping his eyes, and embraced Bucky. “You always know just what to say to kick my ass into gear, don’t you?”

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle as he hugged Steve back, picturing him smaller, more fragile, and still saying those same words. “Maybe I do. I’ve had some practice.” He patted Steve’s back. “Now go get yourself a boyfriend.”

* * *

 

Steve wasn’t sure where to begin with this conversation, but he was sure where to start looking for Tony. The logical guess would be that Tony was on his own personal floor, of course, but this wasn’t an average situation. Asking JARVIS would just lead to Tony quickly catching wind that Steve was looking for him, and if he didn’t want to be found… Well, that wasn’t a chance Steve was willing to take right now. Like Bucky had said, they needed to fix this. He cast a glance at the elevator before striding past it, pushing the door open to the stairwell and heading up to his own floor. If Steve was going to do this, there would be no more shortcuts— even if that meant it took him all day to find Tony Stark. 

He paused outside of his floor, taking a few breaths as the tightening his chest threatened to creep into more than just mild discomfort. It was always an ironic parallel, how much anxiety felt like asthma, that sometimes it was hard to forget that it was physically impossible for Steve to suffer from an asthma attack again. It wasn’t impossible for him to have physiological responses to anxiety, however.  _ Erskine would have had a hayday with that information _ , he thought wearily, sliding down the wall and fisting his hair. It was one thing to know that sitting here wouldn’t get him anywhere, but quite another to get his brain to remind his erratic heart rate that he was the one making the choice. It had been like this from the beginning— the beginning of waking up from the ice, the beginning of his inkling of a feeling for Tony, the beginning of today’s argument when he wondered if he would lose him.  _ When you’ve lost seventy years, you don’t want to lose another minute _ , Steve scolded himself before pushing off of the floor and opening the door. 

It took Steve five steps into his own home to realize that there was someone else in it. This information did not even register from seeing anyone, but from hearing what could not possibly be just “anyone” sitting at the piano. The erratic heart rate had returned, paired with an immobilized body. What was the likelihood? It wasn’t a surprise anymore when Steve didn’t recognize a song, given that no one who lived in the Tower seemed to know anything from his generation. He folded his arms, resolute in his choice to listen before he approached.

 

“ _ Every now and then I know you'll never be the boy  _

_ You always wanted to be _

_ But every now and then I know you'll always be the only boy  _

_ Who wanted me the way that I am  _

_ Every now and then I know there's no one in the universe  _

_ As magical and wondrous as you  _

_ Every now and then I know there's nothing any better  _

_ There's nothing that I just wouldn't do  _

_ Every now and then I fall apart… _ ”

 

Any other time, Steve would have refused to believe this was intentional. Anthony Stark did not confront his problems when he thought he was right, nor did he sing ballads at the piano on someone else’s floor. That wasn’t true today, not anymore— he was sitting there at the piano he probably told everyone else he didn’t know how to play, in Steve’s living room, after a fight he probably felt he won. Steve tipped his head and let out another slow breath. Standing here marveling or hem-hawing wasn’t going to help either of them. He crossed the room to stand at the side of the piano, intent on allowing Tony to finish playing his song, only to find that it cut off as soon as he placed a hand on the edge. 

“What was that?” Steve questioned, no preamble this time as he made an active effort to study the view from the windows instead of Tony’s face. “The song you were playing just now.”

“Big hit in the eighties. A Bonnie Tyler song by the name of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.’ I’m not even sure how I came across it, considering it wasn’t exactly Zeppelin or Metallica.” 

“It doesn’t matter what it is. You could sing opera on the Brooklyn Bridge to passing cars and still cause a wreck— they’d all stop to listen to you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tony stood, looking at the side of Steve’s head in a feeble attempt at eye contact. He startled as Steve turned and put a hand on either side of Tony’s face.

“I do. I would stop for you. I would crash into the car in front of me, flip my bike, whatever. Never been able to look away from you.”

For a moment it seemed like all could have been forgiven in the span of time it took for Steve to get the words out of his mouth. Tony leaned to press his forehead to Steve’s, closing his eyes and humming in lieu of a response. Steve sighed as he slid his hands from holding Tony’s face to rest on his shoulders instead, pulling back a step to make eye contact once again. A quiet groan of indignance escape Stark’s mouth as he straightened and looked back at Steve’s earnest expression. 

“Just because I can’t look away from you doesn’t mean I can’t look in the mirror. I know we need to talk about— well, this,” Steve gestured to the space between them. “This morning, this relationship that isn’t a relationship, all of this. Because I for one will crash more than a car if we don’t hash this out, right here. You can’t tell me you’re on my floor by accident. If I had come up to yours, uninvited, I could believe that you didn’t want to talk to me. But clearly we have some things to say.”

Tony stepped further away from Steve, rolling his shoulders to drop the hands that had been resting there. “If we’re going to talk, maybe I should ask JARVIS to scan you for signs of Hydra decoy. Since when does Steven Rogers want to have a talk?”

Leaning against the piano, Rogers crossed his arms and turned his gaze to the floor, unable to predict where this conversation was going and settling on the carpet being a safe bet not to analyze his facial expressions. “Since someone Steven Rogers cares about told him he didn’t know anything about twenty-first century communication, maybe now is the time to learn.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Tony didn’t bother hiding the snide edge to his voice, still not willing to face Steve as he fixed his gaze on the window panes.

“The only way to know if we’re in a relationship is to talk about the relationship— at least, that’s what I think you wanted me to understand this morning. I’m still new to the twenty-first century,” Steve said softly. 

Tony’s hard stance, both physically and emotionally, had been steadfast up to that moment. He wanted something like an apology. Maybe even a confession. Before Steve had come in, he had been lamenting to JARVIS about the communication barrier between himself and Steve. Ever-helpful (or smug, depending on your viewpoint of an AI’s personality), JARVIS had pointed out the social custom differentials between relationships in the ‘40s and 2016. Steve trying to read between the lines of Tony’s earlier outburst was enough to soften him around the edges. Running a hand through his hair, Tony thought about what JARVIS had said about courting and presumed status in Steve’s generation. The gap was staggering, a blow of more than simply years between them, and one more obstacle that had a voice in his head screaming to run the opposite direction. Even if it was a facet of himself, some subconscious fear or logic, Stark didn’t like to be told no. 

“Are you saying you’ve been courting me, Captain?” Tony asked with a weak laugh. 

“I don’t know about Captain America, but Steve Rogers sure has been trying to.”

“I’m not much of a traditionalist,” Tony snorted flippantly. 

“Exactly how far are you willing to go from tradition, Tony?” Steve was looking at Tony’s silhouette in the window light, willing him to turn and look at him while simultaneously considering if he was about to make a mistake he couldn’t come back from. Tony didn’t give him much time to consider the alternative, turning with a perplexed expression. 

“What are you talking about Steve?”

“Tradition isn’t just about… The way I court you, or want to be gentleman, or whatever you’re assuming it is that I do. This— us— I get it, in 2016, two men can be together,” Steve could hear himself rambling, stumbling over words, but needed to get it out faster than the words could come. He couldn’t take wondering anymore. “It wasn’t like that in 1943, you know. I couldn’t ‘court’ who I wanted, even if I had looked like this back then, as Bucky so kindly points out. But you— you’ve lived with the option, and yet, here you are with a list of only women. Maybe I have been courting, but… I can’t keep chasing someone who isn’t interested.”

“You think I’m straight?” Tony’s words weren’t malicious, but rather dumbfounded. “Who the hell is running around here saying I’m straight?”

“No one had to—” 

“Stop. Stop right there and listen to me, old man, because someone needs to set you straight about yet another twenty-first century lesson. You didn’t have the option to date men back in the ‘40s, okay, we’ve established that. Presumably, you wanted people to believe you were straight, so you flirted with girls, right? It isn’t like that anymore. I don’t have to sleep with women to pretend I’m something else. I’ve slept with women because they’ve been available, Rogers, not because they’re the only thing I’m interested in. Hell, I wouldn’t say I’m even interested in them. Or men. You want to know if I’m interested? What I’m interested in? If you’re wasting your damn time? Maybe in my younger days I just wanted to get off, but Steve, I am not that person anymore and I’d damn sure think you’d know that. Go ask Rhodey if you want to hear how much I’ve ‘grown up’ or changed or what have you. People can like more than one gender! People don’t even have to like either, for that matter! I don’t see people for what they are. I see people for who they are. Have you really not picked up on that? In all your old-timey courting, did that just slip right through your fingers while you were holding open a door? One of these days you’ll understand, but right now, let me speed up the learning process for you,” Tony spoke as he closed the space between himself and Steve. 

“What are you—”

There was no chance for Steve to finish his thought as Tony’s lips met his. Reflexively, he wrapped one arm around Tony’s waist and another at the back of his head, bracing his back against the piano as Tony pressed into him with all of the pent up frustration and unspoken explanations he had been holding in. Tony’s kiss felt like more than just an answer to all of Steve’s questions. It was an accumulation of five years of tension while they had dancing around one another in uncertainty, answers to questions he didn’t even know he had at all, and a glimpse into what they could have been— and still could be. Steve didn’t know how long it took for the kiss to break, fingers knotting in Tony’s hair as he pulled Tony closer. 

“Does this mean we can talk about that relationship we aren’t in?”

“Steve, I think I’d know if I wasn’t in a relationship. Are you breaking up with me already?”

He couldn’t have contained his smile if he tried, chin resting on Tony’s head as they embraced. Relationship. Steve liked the sound of that. 


	5. Young & Relentless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda's bots are ready for her-- but is she ready for them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! I want to touch on a couple of housekeeping things and they we will get into the chapter. 
> 
> First off, if you've been subscribed and waiting for me to update this fic, I apologize. I am a full time university student, and school unfortunately has to come first. I suffered from a lot of writer's block during my last semester, but now that I've wrapped it up, I'm back to writing more than ever. I want to thank anyone who's left comments, given kudos, and read up to this point. You guys are awesome! 
> 
> If you read my one-shots, please note that they are not connected to this fic in any way. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is from an Against the Current song of the same name. 
> 
> As always, thank you to [h34rt1lly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LILYisatig3r/profile) for being my patient and honest beta. This chapter's quality improved exponentially with her help, as she always keeps me true to my vision and my plot.

The Maximoff twins were the best kid substitute Clint was ever going to get, and if pranking the other Avengers with Pietro wasn't a reminder, nothing could be. The pair were huddled on the catwalk of the shooting range, holding their breaths for the next time Sam needed to reload his pistol. When the moment came, Clint let out a breath as Pietro disappeared, coming back up before Clint could count to two. Sam’s eyes had been on his weapon, and he fired quickly before cursing at the miscalculation in his aim. This went on three more times, a mere 3cm movement of the targets each time, before Sam began examining his Ruger for defects. Clint bit back a snort and high-fived his blonde prodigy-- not for the first time, he wished he had more memories like this with them.

When Peter and Bruce walked into the range, Sam was still puzzling out the errors, looking stumped.

“Is your weapon alright?” Bruce called as they approached, giving Sam plenty of time to stow it or announce a fault before they got too close.

“It's fine I just--” Sam was mid disassembly now, and exasperated. “There's nothing wrong and yet my aim is off!”

Bruce made eye contact with Clint, who was frantically gesturing to stay silent. “I have a theory.”  
  


* * *

 

“Are we sure they’re really ready?”

“We won’t know until they’ve been tested. We agreed that we don’t want to give them to Wanda if they’re not.”

Peter was wide-eyed as he looked through the glass of the observation room, studying the bots that he had been assisting Bruce with as they sparred with Bucky. Bruce’s eyes were fixed on the patterns, noting the timing, the degree of indentation when they were met with a vibranium fist (they weren’t supposed to be indestructible anyway), and other necessary maintenance or upkeep aspects that needed to be factored into their cycle planning.

“They don’t always evade,” Bruce mused. “Which means your programming features have been realistic, Peter. They need to be able to take hits. You’ve made them reasonably realistic to humans— no person would be able to evade or counter every attack, even an enhanced one.”

“We spent so many hours observing how Bucky, Steve, and Pietro’s patterns. They were never infallible. I just wanted to replicate that in the programming,” Peter murmured distractedly, watching the fruit of their labor fall as Bucky pinned one of them to the mat and disabled it before moving to the next bot.

Bruce stepped in front of him, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder as he shook his head. “I don’t think you understand how proud of you I am for this work. The things you’ve created here with just a framework program I had in place… Peter, it’s incredible. If you keep working, you’ll be able to design this from the ground up yourself.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Peter held Bruce’s eyes with disbelief. “I just wanted to do something that mattered. Something that would help people, without a suit. This is to help Wanda.”

“You don’t need a suit to help people,” Bruce agreed quietly, dropping his hand to tuck it into his pocket, “but I hope you know that you, Peter Parker, do plenty of things that matter— in and out of that suit.”

Before Peter could gather his thoughts for a response, Bucky yelled for them to stow the bots. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the other bots were disabled  alongside the first. Bruce nodded before tapping the controls to suspend the arc reactors from feeding energy to the bots. Peter followed Bruce into the elevator, descending to the main sparring area so that they could speak to Bucky about the session. He was surprised to see his teammate soaked in sweat, although he was amused by the pieces of Bucky’s bun that had been dislodged and hanging around his face. Bruce and Peter both dropped to sit beside him on the mat, waiting for his verdict on the validity of their project.

    “Wanda’s lucky she won’t be fighting these things hand to hand,” Barnes declared as he flopped to his back. “The hell did you make these out of?”

“Fibrous refractory composite insulation that’s enhanced with ceramic alloys, over a silicon-titanium frame,” Bruce supplied.

“Yeah, do you want to try explaining that to those of us who aren’t scientists?” Bucky grumbled.

“The interior frame is similar to the way Tony constructed the Iron Man suits, but I decided to go with titanium rather than steel like he did. It keeps it light, and since these don’t need to sustain the same kind of impact damage, it just made more sense. The exterior is made with the material NASA developed for the exterior of the space shuttles, but is enhanced with ceramic alloys to keep it even more durable. Actually, the ceramic alloy enhancement was Peter’s suggestion.”

Peter flushed and rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes from Bucky’s. “I wanted to make sure they could withstand a wide variety of damage, to make sure we were making mechanical and systemic maintenance checks instead of exterior ones. Dr. Banner had all the original work on these, I just helped out.”

“He’s being unnecessarily modest,” Bruce protested, “but that seems to be an Avengers trait, so I’ll allow it. In any case, what did you think of them?”

“I think they’re not unbeatable, but I’d be concerned if they were from what I’ve heard about Ultron. Didn’t you tell me that the bots can’t predict fight patterns on their own?”

“No, they can’t. That was all programmed by our observations of your spars, and they are working within set limits that I’ve programmed,” Peter noted.

“They’re durable and challenging. I know you guys will adjust them, but as it sits, I think they’re working without error and as intended. When Pietro gives you the go-ahead to show them to Wanda, they’ll be ready for her.” Bucky stood and helped the pair to their feet before casting a glance back at the bots. “I think you’ve got a good thing here. But convincing her of that is a whole other battle.”

Peter and Bruce exchanged a look as Bucky retreated to the elevator, raising a hand  to them before the doors closed, signaling his departure from the conversation. Everything from  this point on was resting on Pietro and Clint’s approval, and Wanda’s agreement. It sounded simple on paper, but neither of them were naive enough to believe that the work anywhere near complete.

“Let’s go find Pietro and Clint.”  


* * *

 

Peter had texted Clint to ask if Natasha would occupy Wanda, a sure signal that there was something about the bots that needed to be discussed. Clint tossed his phone to Nat, raising an eyebrow as she sighed.

“I don’t like lying, Clint.”

“You aren’t. I don’t even know what needs to discussed. Right now, I just need some time to figure that out. Can’t you guys go get coffee or something?”

“You just want me to bring you a coffee,” Nat griped as she shrugged on her jacket.

“Thank you, Natasha,” Clint caught her hand and squeezed it as she passed him. “I owe you.”

“You always do,” she affirmed. “This is just another time to add to the list.”

Pietro passed Natasha in the hall, pausing to study her face before she jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward Clint. “Go talk to him.”

Clint handed his phone to Pietro as he settled onto the couch, letting him read the text in lieu of an explanation. The last thing he wanted was for Wanda to hear them, or for her to get suspicious and prod their minds. She made a conscious effort not to do that, but he couldn’t be too cautious, never knowing when would be the right time to introduce her to the project that had been going on behind her back. Pietro typed a text before handing Clint back his phone.

_She won’t use her powers right now, you know that. Just let Natasha handle this until Dr. Banner and Peter get here._

Clint nodded and reached for his half-empty coffee, sighing at the mug. He didn’t like lying to her any more than Nat did, but what other choice did he have? They couldn’t have told her about the bots from the start— she would have rejected the idea before it had any forward momentum at all. Waiting until everything was completed and vetted seemed like the best course of action, even with the tinge of guilt he had about doing this behind Wanda’s back.

“We’re going to get some coffee,” Wanda announced as she emerged from her room with Natasha. “We will return with some for you as well, yes?”

“Please do,” Pietro called after them as they left, the door hardly even clicking behind Natasha.

It didn’t take long for Peter and Bruce to knock, and the door swung open. Peter still wasn’t used to Pietro’s speed, knowing that he must have opened the door and settled back on the sofa in the amount of time it took for them to knock and cross the threshold. Bruce looked as anxious as Peter did excited, looking around for signs of Wanda as he took a seat in a barstool at the counter.

“She went out with Natasha, Dr. Banner,” Pietro supplied as he appeared in the kitchen. “I presume they will be gone long enough for us to have a conversation.”

“How’s the progress?” Clint asked as he joined everyone in the kitchen.

“The functionality patterns have been programmed by Peter and I based on sparring sessions we’ve studied with James, Pietro, and Steve,” Bruce explained. “The structures are complete, the arc reactor power is functioning on the same level as Tony’s suits. We did a session with James this morning, and it looks like they’re ready for her—”

“But is she ready for them?” Clint frowned, crossing his arms as he listened to Bruce’s explanation. “She hasn’t even been willing to use her powers since Lagos…”

“She cannot hide from herself forever!” Pietro roared. “If we just keep relying on time to get her to heal, we will go nowhere. Lagos and Sokovia were—”

“Were what, Pietro?”

The men turned their heads in horror to the sound of Wanda’s voice at the door. No one had heard her open it, and she was hesitating in the hall, waiting for her brother’s answer.

“What were Lagos and Sokovia? Please, continue your thought,” she goaded, glaring at her twin. “It shouldn’t matter if I’m here or not, since you were speaking on my behalf.”

“Wanda, I thought you were just grabbing your—” Natasha’s voice died in her throat as she appeared at Wanda’s shoulder, the tension palpable.

Pietro put his head in his hands, elbows braced against the counter as he took a breath. This isn’t what she was supposed to hear. He and Clint, maybe even Natasha, were supposed to ease her into this. She was supposed to hear about the bots, not her downfalls. She wasn’t supposed to look so angry, stricken with his criticisms. He didn’t need her power to feel the pain of betrayal coming off of her in waves, clenching his heart as he searched for his next words.

“They were tragic, Wanda.” Natasha’s answer startled Pietro. That wasn’t the point of this, true or not.

“No, Natasha,” he seethed, “they were more than that. Wanda, they were accidents! I don’t know what it will take to make you understand that you are not a weapon. You are more than some ticking time bomb, sister, and you are capable of more than destruction. This isn’t how I wanted you to hear this, but fine, at least you’re listening to me. Dr. Banner and Peter have been developing something for you, consulting Clint and I all along the way. I know you’re scared— scared of what’s happened, scared of yourself. But you cannot live your life in fear. You will never move on if all you do is hide from something you cannot control. It will only get worse, and you will become more deadly than you have ever been. Someone will prey upon your fear, your unpredictable power, and what then? They have found a way for you to practice without ever interacting with another person. There’s no one to hurt. Please, just listen to them talk about their bots and you’ll understand what—”

“Bots?” Wanda spat, looking disgusted at the word. “You want me to practice my power on another Ultron?”

“They’re nothing like Ultron!” Peter shouted, nearly knocking over his chair as he stood up in indigence. “Dr. Banner and I didn’t spend this much time on something that could hurt anyone! We did this for you, Wanda, and if you don’t care about it, fine. But don’t insult the work we’ve done by comparing it to Ultron!”

“YOU NEVER SAW HIM!” Wanda’s voice was rising every time she spoke. “You know nothing of Ultron, Peter, so how could you ever know if you have created another or not?”

“Because I know,” Clint answered. “I was there. I knew Ultron, and fought him alongside you. They’ve checked in with me every step of the way, Wanda, and all anyone wanted for this was for you to be able to heal.”

“Clint, I—”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Clint answered, wiping his face. “I’m not your father. I shouldn’t have overstepped.”

Wanda couldn’t speak through her tears, her eyes on Clint as she waited for him to look at her, to forgive her. Instead, he brushed past her as he left the apartment, not sparing a glance for anyone as he disappeared into the elevator.  


* * *

 

 Wanda hadn’t left her room since the incident in the kitchen with Clint. Three days had passed since then, and Natasha couldn’t stand the environment inside their apartment anymore. Clint had only come home to sleep, making a point to ensure Wanda wasn’t out and about before he did. At any other moment, he was camped in the Tower’s shooting range, never missing a target but feeling no satisfaction in it. Pietro had been sleeping in the hall, his pillow firmly in front of Wanda’s door, as though if he were just there his sister may come around. There was no mistaking the sobbing coming from inside her room, and Nat was exhausted from lack of sleep, spending all night staring at Pietro’s sleeping form and listening to his sister’s sobs. She didn’t have any alternatives left, and she knew there was a risk that Wanda would ever speak to her again for what she was about to do. Still, it seemed like the only way to snap her out of her slump. Stepping out onto the balcony, Nat closed the door before pulling out her phone and dialing the only person amongst the team who might be able to piece Wanda back together.

“Natasha? What’s wrong?” The tired voice on the other end of the line sounded half asleep, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“Sam… I need you to come talk to Wanda.”

“At,” he paused, groaning before continuing, “2:41am? I take it this cannot wait until a reasonable hour?”

“She hasn’t left her room in three days, Sam. Pietro’s sleeping in the hallway outside her door. All I hear is her sobs and I just,” Natasha had to stop speaking to take a breath, wiping her eyes to ward off the tears that threatened to spill over. “Someone needs to save her, Sam, because she won’t save herself.”

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Sit tight.”

Sam didn’t bother knocking and Natasha didn’t bother changing. Sitting on the couch, she pulled her knees closer to her chest, her face resting against them with Clint’s shirt bunched around her. He couldn’t miss the haunted look on her face, the one he’d seen during some of their sessions, that was the closest to fight or flight as she would ever show. Nat met his eyes and stood to follow him to Wanda’s door, taking care not to step on Pietro in the dark. Before she could lean down to nudge him awake, Sam shook his head, gesturing that he would handle it. Natasha exhaled before nodding, going to her and Clint’s room to check in on him.

Sam slid down the wall to sit next to Pietro’s pillow. He reached out for the younger man’s hand, nudging at it to wake him up. The darkness didn’t conceal tear-swollen eyes when he blinked awake, unsure of who was there with him.

“It’s Sam, Pietro. I need to talk to your sister.”

A new stream of tears had already started to streak down Pietro’s face as he sat up, staring forlornly at Wanda’s door. “All she does is cry. It hurts— god, Sam, it hurts. I don’t need her power… I feel everything she does. But she will not talk. She doesn’t open the door.” His accent was more pronounced than ever, throat grated raw from his own sobs.

Sam wanted to comfort him, but that wasn’t why he was here, not now. His objective was to get Wanda to open the door. If that failed, at the very least, he needed to get her to talk to him— through the door, through a phone, anything at all. Sam scooted to sit in front of Pietro and took his hand, unsure of how long he should wait before speaking again. Pietro continued to cry and tightened his grip on Sam’s fingers.

“I promise you,” Sam whispered, pulling Pietro in for a hug, “I will get her to open the door. But to do that, I need you to go get some sleep, in a real bed. Let me sit out here and talk to her, even through the door, until she talks back. Can you do that for me?”

Pietro nodded against Sam’s shoulder, shuddering before he stood up and gathered his makeshift bed. “I need her to be okay. Please help her,” he whispered.

“I will.”

Nodding, Pietro went to his room, watching from the doorway until Sam settled against Wanda’s door.

“I know you’re awake, and I know you heard us— maybe not every word, but you heard us talkin’ about you. Wanda, if you aren’t ready to leave your room right now, we can just talk right here. You need to talk to someone.”

There was no response from inside the room, as he’d expected. That was fine. He didn’t have anywhere else to be. Instead of begging her to open the door, Sam decided on a different tactic.

“Alright, you don’t want to open the door. You don’t want to talk. I can talk for both of us, until you’re ready. How’s that sound?” He pause, but no answer came. “Thought so. Let me tell you what I think is going on here. You’re my teammate, and my teammates are my family. Your brother, Nat, and Clint are more your family than anyone else in this entire tower. You’d do anything to protect them. You trust them explicitly. And that trust is why it hurt so damn bad when you found out they’d been working on something behind your back— all three of them. Worse than just them, your whole team knew, and you didn’t. Am I on the right track?”

“Yes.”

Sam was startled by the raw voice that answered him back just before the door opened.

“You are right, Sam Wilson, but I do not wish to talk here,” she managed to get out. “Can we please go somewhere…private?”

Sam nodded, offering her his hand as he stood. “I have an office on my floor. Will that suit you?”

Wanda only nodded, ignoring Sam’s hand but following him anyway. She didn’t say a word on the walk to his office, only clutched a blanket around her shoulders as she shivered. _Probably from exhaustion_ , Sam thought, _but I doubt she’ll sleep until we work through this._ He didn’t have any wild ideas about solving all of Wanda’s problems at nearly 3:30 in the morning, particularly when she (presumably) hadn’t slept in the past 72 hours.

Sam opened the door to his office and let Wanda enter first, waiting for her to get settled before he sat down. The office wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for single or couple sessions— something the team needed. The walls were painted a soft blue and paired with cream molding, with one wall having the staple city-view windows of the Stark Tower. Wanda cautiously perched on the love-seat, Sam held up a finger and left the room to hold on before returning with bottles of water and orange juice. He put them on the table between them before taking the wingback chair opposite of her.

“We don’t have to talk about everything, Wanda. Right now, can just tell me what’s happened since you found out about the bots?”

She fiddled with her orange juice lid, one hand still clutching the blanket at her shoulder. “So you knew about them.” It wasn’t a question. Sam nodded, waiting for her to continue. “I have been in my room. I did not wish to talk to anyone.”

“I gathered that much,” he agreed as he opened his own bottle of juice. “I’m going to need a little more information to go off of if I’m going to help. You should drink that— it’s orange juice, and therefore the best source of nutrients on the face of this earth.”

The corner of her mouth twitched before she consented, downing the small bottle of juice before studying her fingers. “I am not angry that they built these bots.”

“Your brother seems to think otherwise.”

Wanda shook her head, dispelling Pietro’s assumption. “I am telling you the truth, Sam. I am angry that they treated me like a child, unable to think for herself or handle her emotions.”

“Why do you think they hid their plans from you?” he asked bluntly, leaning back to watch her. “It can’t be just because they thought you’d reject them, right?”

“I do not think my rejection was the only factor, no,” she agreed. “Though my lack of interest in my powers since Lagos is probably more likely.”

“Everyone has been concerned about you avoiding your powers, Wanda.”

“Even you?” Her voice jumped an octave in shock, sitting up to make eye contact with Sam.

“Especially me, outside of your brother, Clint, and Natasha,” Sam affirmed. “I’m a therapist, Wanda. Not only is it my job to pay attention, it is my job to think about how things affect others— in your case, how repressing your powers and emotions might affect your psyche. Your powers are intertwined with your mind. That’s why you hurt when you feel the pain of someone else. Did you really think no one, especially me, would notice your depression after Lagos? Cut us some slack.”

“Tell me, therapist,” she snapped, “do you think my depression merely ended after time passed? Do you think that so many people dying at my hands got any easier?”

“Not a damn bit.”

“W-what?” Her gaze widened, fixed on Sam’s face, as she moved her hands in front of her. Sam noticed the faint red between them, little more than a mist, and nothing like the power he knew she had.

“I think it only got harder for you. I was in the military, Wanda, and I’ve killed my fair share. I’ve caused people to die, acting on orders from my superior, when I knew it felt wrong. I’ve seen accidents. I watched my best friend die in front of me. You may have something that many military personnel suffer from, among others— Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD for short. It’s treatable, but I’d need more sessions to diagnose it. But you may also have something much more simple: regret. It could be a lot of things, Wanda, but at the end of the day you have to stop blaming yourself. You did what you could. I was there, in Lagos, you know. You were a kid! You made a mistake. You’ve felt remorse, and regret, and struggled with it ever since. But how does damning yourself bring any of those people back?”

Wanda shook, her tears returning with a vengeance as she clutched at her temples. The blanket fell to the floor, forgotten in the flood of emotions she couldn’t contain anymore. “I cannot bring them back. I know this. But I can keep myself for harming anyone else.”

“Do you think Bucky was able to just jump into being an Avenger after he lived seventy years as the Winter Soldier?” Sam coaxed, pulling his legs into the chair so he could sit cross-legged. “As if he just snapped out of Hydra’s control and joined up with us, ready to only kill the bad people?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wanda sniffed, “of course he did not do such a thing.”

“Then why do you think it should be any different for you?”

She bit her lip, her eyes evading his fixed gaze upon her. Sam noted that she wasn’t looking at anything-- just through it, in the same way Bucky used to when they would talk about his conditioning through Hydra. “Because he is not a monster, Sam.”

“You’re right,” Sam agreed, looking out the window, “but he was, if you ask him. Do you remember List recruiting you to HYDRA?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I remember all of it.”

“Did List, or Von Stucker, truly give you a choice? Or did they manipulate you into thinking you and Pietro were doing the right thing, fighting for the right team?”

“They said we would change the world,” Wanda answered sadly, “and so did Ultron…” Her voice broke into another sob.

“Bucky didn’t have a choice, but he was told the same things you were. HYDRA always tells the same stories, Wanda. Do you know who else thought they chose the right side?” Sam waited for her answer, but she merely shook her head, unable to speak to him. “Someone else you know very well-- Natasha. Has she ever told you about the Red Room?”

Wanda met Sam’s eyes, blinking in awe at his question. “No one talks about the Red Room around her.”

“Then let me tell you some things-- things that she’s said in the Commons, not here in my office-- about her time there. She was young when she went with the KGB, an orphan who felt like she had no other option. When they began her training, they masqueraded it like ballet until they earned her trust.”

“Because she loves to dance,” Wanda murmured, “she still loves to dance.”

“Yes, she does,” Sam agreed, “and that’s how they hooked her in. And from there, they manipulated her the same way you, Pietro, and Bucky all were: by telling her she could make the world a better place.”

He let his words hang in the air between them, steepling his fingers as he let Wanda digest the information. When she didn’t speak, remaining mystified by this information, he went on. “Look, I see four people who wanted to do the right thing. I’ve seen two of them spend years undoing all the bullshit that happened to them. I’ve seen your brother moving on. All anyone wants is to see you move on too, Wanda-- if they can believe in themselves, why can’t you?”

She wanted to answer, but couldn’t bring the words to the surface. Instead, Wanda stood, pushing the glowing red mist towards Sam with her hands. Unlike what she had done to Natasha, Steve, and Thor, she was not implanting false cognitive visions into Sam’s head. This time, she was sharing her own. Sam’s hands flew to his temples as his back arched out of the chair, screaming in anguish at the intensity of emotions that had flooded into him at once. Wanda wavered, collapsing back onto the couch and dropping her hands. “I do not wish to hurt you. Only to make you see.”

Sam couldn’t catch his breath, still reeling from the emotional pain she had displayed for him. “I need you to take my advice on something.”

“What is it?” Wanda’s voice was merely a whisper, her attention rapt to Sam’s every word.

“You need to train with Barnes.”  


* * *

 

“WILSON, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND?” Clint howled as he threw open the door to Sam’s office. “That is the only feasible reason that you would suggest something that could get a fellow teammate severely injured, when we have a perfectly logical alternative!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam swore under his breath. Wanda had obviously already told him (or maybe Pietro had) about his proposal to have her train with Bucky. He had wanted at least another hour of peace to enjoy some coffee before this came up, but here they were, and Clint’s posture left no room for negotiating the timing of this discuss. “You know, generally speaking, it’s polite to knock on the door of a therapist’s office. I could have been in the middle of a session man—”

“I absolutely could not possibly, in any way shape or form, have cared less if you were hosting Odin himself in your office right now. Stop trying to change the subject and tell me what the hell you were thinking.”

Sam stood to match Clint’s height, holding his hands up palms-out in a show of truce. “You asked, so let me explain this. I didn’t just walk into Wanda’s room and suggest that she go blasting Barnes off the roof of the tower to vent her frustrations. I talked to her first, and though I can’t disclose everything we talked about, I can tell you that she explained to me how she felt. Hell, I’ll even let you in on the fact that she feels like the entire team has been tiptoeing around her like she’s a fragile child. She may be damaged, but which one of us isn’t? She’s still capable of making her own decisions. I’d go as far as to say that I think if you and Pietro had proposed the bots to her, followed by speaking to Bruce and Peter herself, the whole thing could have been avoided.”

“You got all that out of one session?” Clint gritted out, leaning against the door frame with a sigh. “That still doesn’t explain, if you think she would have agreed to the bots, why on EARTH you would suggest that she spar with Barnes! They could kill each other, Sam!”

“But they won’t,” a voice from the hall startled both of them, causing Clint to jump further into Sam’s office. “You are giving them no credit, Clint.”

“Pietro, I think we need to have another discussion about announcing your presence,” Clint grumbled.

“That is not the point at hand,” Pietro waved off the comment and looked between the two older men. “The point is that she wants to do this. She agreed to do this, and yet you doubt her?”

“I don’t doubt her—”

“Then you doubt Bucky?” Sam interjected, looking surprised.

“I don’t doubt either of them!”

“Clint,” Pietro said slowly, taking deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of his caretaker, “she would never harm a team member. But she wants to prove this to herself. He will not harm her. Bucky is not the Winter Soldier anymore.”

“If you had come to me first,” Sam said quietly, “you might know that I told her some stipulations to this. Everyone will be in the observation deck, JARVIS will be ready with barriers that were designed to deter even the Hulk, and no one will get involved unless one of them says a safe word of their choosing. This won’t be a typical spar. This is as much a therapy session as it is a training session. With that in mind, Clint, you need to trust me to run this. There will be every safeguard we can possibly have in place. Not only that, I trust Barnes with my life, man. Let Wanda trust him with hers, if that’s what you assume.”

“Do I have to like this?”

“No,” Sam affirmed with a chuckle, “all you have to do is support it.”

“Fine. When is this happening?” Clint was resigned now, accepting that he was beaten after all.

“Tomorrow morning,” Pietro supplied. “Wanda wanted to sleep, but did not want to delay.”

“Jesus, you kids are going to drive me into an early grave.”  


* * *

 

_Meet me on the observation deck. Hurry, before everyone else gets here._

Pietro’s text was cryptic, but Bucky couldn’t be bothered with dwelling right now. He was already halfway to the sparring room, and took the elevator just one more stop up to find Wanda’s brother waiting for him.

“What took you so long?!” Pietro hissed, raking his hands through his hair.

“Pietro, I know not everyone is as fast as you are, but it has only been 2 minutes.”

“Oh,” the younger man flushed. “I just… I need you to try something during the spar.”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow, now interested in whatever this request might be— it seemed like everyone had expectations of both he and Wanda for today. “What, are you going to ask me to lose?”

Pietro wrinkled his nose and stilled, looking annoyed. “Absolutely not,” he chastised, “now pay attention because we don’t have long. I’ve heard that you trained Natasha in the Red Room. What did you do when you trained her?”

Now on the defensive, Bucky shifted into a stiff posture, glaring at Pietro. “A lot of things I’m not proud of, and that I had no choice in. Pushed her too hard, never held back, antagonized her, and generally made her the near-invincible opponent she is today. Why is that relevant?”

“I need you to antagonize Wanda, the way you would antagonize Natasha.”

“I’m sorry, what?!” Bucky shouted in disbelief. “Isn’t this already hard enough for you and Clint? And for Nat? God, you want me to piss her off during her first spar with a teammate since Lagos?!”

“I know the risks!” Pietro shouted back. “But understand what I’m saying— Wanda is so terrified that she will lose control, right? I need you to push her there, because she would never hurt you. She wouldn’t hurt any of us. If she is pushed to the edge in a controlled space, she will learn to recognize the cues of when she’s close to losing her grip—”

“—and effectively learn to reign it in,” Bucky finished for him. “I still don’t like this.”

“It will be for the best. Please, do this for her, Barnes,” Pietro begged.

“Fine. But if this blows up, literally or figuratively, I hope you know that you asked for it,” Bucky warned as he headed back to the elevator. “I need to go get ready.”

Not long after, the Avengers began to fill the observation deck. Clint and Nat arrived first, both looking anxious and tired. Pietro highly suspected that neither of them had slept much the night before, but that was neither here nor there. Sam, Steve, Peter, Bruce, and Tony arrived together, with Bruce bearing the brunt of the anxiety in the room.

“This is why we made her bots,” Bruce commented quietly, pressing his forehead to the glass as Wanda entered the sparring room with Bucky.

Tony was suspiciously silent, his mouth set in a hard line as he stood between Bruce and Steve. “JARVIS, activate the mics and speakers.”

 _Right away, Sir_ , JARVIS affirmed.

“Safe words, children,” Tony demanded.

“Pineapple,” Bucky called out.

“What the hell kind of safe word is pineapple?” Clint shouted back.

“It’s supposed to be something that would never come up during the action, Clint,” Steve supplied. “At no point during a spar would a person start talking about pineapples.”

“What if they were in Hawaii, among pineapples?”

“Clint, shut up,” Tony snapped. “You’re just being difficult. Wanda?”

“Coffee,” she called.

“Alright then. Remember the rules— no serious injuries, JARVIS and I have the ability to put up barriers to contain you if you’re getting out of hand; don’t break each other, don’t break my tower. Begin whenever you’re ready.”

There was no preamble to the action. Bucky immediately began to circle Wanda, an intimidation tactic that any assassin was familiar with. Pietro heard Natasha sigh beside him. Wanda had no problem dodging Bucky, which was an immediate tip off for anyone watching that he was holding back.

“I’m not a child anymore!” Wanda screamed, a blaze of red energy spawning in her hand. “Quit toying with me!”

Bucky flipped to the side and rolled to get behind her, landing a blow with his metal arm square in the middle of Wanda’s back. Her attempt to hit him with the conglomerated ball of energy missed, too wide and high to hit him. She shrieked in frustration, spinning to follow him with her eyes as he circled her again like a viper.

“You said not to toy with you, and yet you couldn’t hit me when I was practically on top of you,” Bucky commented casually as he continued to dance around her. “A pity, really. I thought you’d be a challenging opponent, Wanda.”

“JARVIS, disable observation mics,” Tony barked before turning to Sam. “What the hell is he doing? Did you suggest this?”

“Absolutely not!” Sam protested, looking as confused as Tony felt.

“He’s going to make her angry,” Bruce murmured. “Is that really what we want?”

“Just watch,” Natasha spat, shushing them. Her posture had stiffened, eyes sharply fixed to Barnes.

Wanda was keeping pace with Bucky now, chasing his intricate patterns around the room with eyes blazing. “You think I am no threat?”

“I think you’re too scared to be a threat,” Bucky corrected.

“I am not frightened of you!” Wanda snapped, sending another stream of power towards Bucky— she missed once again, but narrowly this time. “ATTACK ME!”

“Do you think I need your power to read you, Wanda?” he taunted. “Your actions, your posture, your energy itself tells anyone about the fear that is buried in you.”

“The only thing I am afraid of is killing you.”

Everyone on the deck froze, watching as the lights in the room began to flicker. “JARVIS!” Tony shouted. “Wattage reading, now!”

_Overloaded, Sir. Seconds to damage._

“Stop this!” Clint shouted, turning to Tony. “Put up your barriers!”

“Don’t!” Pietro roared, stepping in front of Clint. “I asked him to do this! To teach her!”

“ARE YOU INSANE!” Clint screamed. “She’s going to kill him if he keeps this up!”

“I never killed him in the Red Room,” Natasha noted. “She’ll break the lights before she does a damn thing to him.”

The sound of shattering filled the speakers of the observation deck, turning everyone’s attention back to Wanda. Stretches of red were all they could see, the room devoid of the previous light sources— and then they saw it.

Bucky, suspended in the air, in a telekinetic choke-hold. Not moving.

“Move!” Steve roared, trying to open the elevator.

“Disabled,” Tony whispered, “for our safety.”

Bucky’s voice, breathy and quiet, crackled over the speakers once again. “If you’re going to kill me, this was all for nothing, Wanda. The o-only thing you’ll prove…is that you’re the monster you’re afraid of becoming.”

Her scream of frustration in response nearly blew the speakers, but left and audible thud as Bucky fell back to the mat.

“GET OUT. ALL OF YOU, GET OUT!” Wanda cried, sobbing as she sunk to her knees. “Coffee, coffee, coffee!”

Clint cast a look around the room. “Enable the elevator, let me the fuck through! Pietro, stay here— the rest of you, you heard her, OUT!”

Clint ran down the connecting emergency stairs, sliding to a halt as he gathered Wanda in his arms. “Are you alright?” he breathed. “I’m here.”

She didn’t answer at first, turning to clutch his shirt as she sobbed. Clint looked over the top of Wanda’s head to Bucky, seeing faint burn-like marks around his throat. Medical was going to have a field day if he had to haul Barnes down there like this, but with any luck, the serum would ward that off.  

Catching his eye, Clint mouthed ‘Are you okay?’ before being met with a nod from Barnes. ‘I’ve had worse,’ James mouthed back, putting his head in his hands. Had worse or not, it had to have hurt like a bitch— and terrified the hell out of everyone.

“Wanda, listen to me. You’re safe. Bucky is okay.”

“I almost killed him, Clint,” she wailed.

“But you didn’t, Wanda,” Bucky croaked. “I knew what I was doing. I knew you wouldn’t kill me. I just wanted you to fight back. I used to do the same to Natasha, in the Red Room— and it worked then, too. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Wanda whispered. “You did what you thought was best for me.”

Clint ran his fingers through her hair as Pietro appeared, enveloping his sister in a hug. “I knew you could do this.”

Wanda remained there for a moment, enveloped in the the love of her family, still shaking from the cathartic release of her power and emotions. “Clint?”

“Yes, Wanda?”

“Take me to my bots.”


	6. If Actions Spoke Louder Than Words, You'd Have Made Me Deaf By Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen when people repress their feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than my usual (I aim for 5000-7000 on average), but I hope you can all forgive that since I updated on schedule! :) Infinite thanks to h34rt1lly for dealing with how neurotic writing this chapter made me feel. Chapter title taken from a lyric in the song "Your Way With Words Is Through Silence" by A Day to Remember.

The Avengers had a lot of bad habits among themselves. There was everything from gambling (Clint), to drinking (Tony), and some sort of pseudo-fight club whenever Thor was in town (courtesy of Sam and Bucky). Smoking, however, was news to Clint. “When did this start? You’ve never smoked.”

“Not smoking since you met me does not mean I’ve never smoked,” Nat countered venomously. “Besides, it isn’t like smoking is going to be the thing that kills me.”

Clint was thoroughly annoyed at this point of the conversation, letting his head fall back against the sliding glass door as he closed his eyes. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t see it— he could smell it, a lingering reminder that something was different about Natasha. “Do you want to tell me why you’re doing this?”

Nat flicked her cigarette and leaned on the balcony, avoiding Clint’s gaze as she studied the city lights. “Not particularly,” she answered hesitantly.

“Let me phrase that a different way,” Clint bit out as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What the fuck is going on with you? Since when do we keep secrets?”

“This wasn’t a secret. I was on the balcony in plain sight.”

“Right, because in plain sight now means when you thought I had already gone to sleep?” Clint knew his tone was sharp, but her indifference and avoidance was making it hard to keep his temper in check. 

Picking her foot up to stub the cigarette out against her boot, Natasha tossed it into the trash can they kept in the corner of their balcony. “Is this really about cigarettes?” She still wasn’t meeting his eyes, looking past him into their apartment. “It was one when I came out here, you know. We should get some sleep.”

“We should continue our conversation!” Clint hissed, taking a step closer to her. “Or is this just another thing that is too inconvenient to discuss, since it involves feelings?”

She dropped into a chair, fingers going to her brow as she listened to Clint’s words. The tone of Natasha’s voice was measured and deliberate as she spoke. “I thought we always knew we didn’t want kids, even back in Budapest.”

This startled him, to say the least— if startled was synonymous with rapidly enraged. “Now you’re changing the subject, which means you’re avoiding something. Goddamnit, Nat, I know your tricks. I’ve been with you too long not to!” He leaned forward to grip the rail, a way of grounding that this was in fact happening, even if he didn’t want it to be. “And of all the subjects you could try to avoid the question with, you pick that? What are you playing at?”

“Answer me first,” she goaded, “didn’t you tell me you didn’t want kids?”

“Misinterpretation, we could not have children. It isn’t the same.” Clint still hadn’t moved from his spot on the railing, hands going numb from the intensity of his grip. “But that didn’t matter. I loved you, and the rest didn’t matter.”

“You’re a horrible liar, for a spy,” Natasha spat. “You say you know my tricks, but I know yours. You wanted to have a family, and you settled for someone who couldn’t give you that.” She was sitting in a chair now, fidgeting with the drawstrings on her sweats and her eyes on his averted shoulders, the set of his jaw as he listened to her. “And now we have two kids, Clint.”

There it was, needling jab that she must have calculated would make him move. Clint turned, agonizingly slow as he turned over what she had just said, to drop to his knees and meet her eyes. “Look. At. Me. Natasha.” Tears hovered under his lashes as he put his hands on either side of her face. “Tell me you don’t resent the twins.” When she bit her lip and didn’t respond, he took a sharp breath, the tears spilling hot and fast down his face. His grip on her cheeks tightened, fingers lacing in her hair as he let the tears fall unbidden. “Tell me,” he pleaded.

“I don’t resent the twins for living in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Nat murmured, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to meet Clint’s gaze. “They didn’t do anything wrong, not by living, not by being manipulated by Hydra.”

“They had nowhere to go. They had no one. They needed us,” Clint reminded her as he dropped his hands to bury his face in them. “And here I thought we were talking about cigarettes.”

“I needed you.” 

Clint’s hands fell to his knees, his head turning to look at her. She was standing now, looking down at him with her own folded arms and straightened spine. “You’ve had me. From the first day in Budapest, you’ve had me, Natasha.” Fresh tears were falling now as his voice rose to shout, “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“I haven’t had you from the minute you found the thing you really wanted. You finally got the family you always wanted. I see you, as you play dad to those kids— and I mean it, I don’t resent them, Clint. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t resent myself. I don’t want to be a parent. That option never existed for me, never even crossed my mind because I knew I couldn’t. I moved on without grief or want. I met you, and I thought just the two of us could work. It did, until you met them.” Natasha’s own tears were falling now, but she didn’t sway, continuing on in her explanation as though nothing had changed. “I can’t be their parent. I care about them, and they may be twenty-one years old, but they missed more than I can make up for. They need you more than I do, I see that. And you know what else?”

“What?” Clint choked, leaning back to the railing for support. 

“You don’t need to wake up every night to me smoking cigarettes anymore.”

“What are you saying?”

Natasha didn’t answer him. She just shook her head, sliding the door back open and disappearing inside. Clint didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the glass and waiting. However long it was, it was several moments too long— by the time he realized she was in the elevator, he couldn’t stand up before she was gone. 

* * *

 

Pietro poked half-heartedly at his cereal the next morning, glancing up at Clint every minute or two with a loud sigh. Clint knew what he was doing, but continued to study his untouched eggs as he sipped his fourth cup of coffee. 

“That is excessive, even for you,” Pietro noted as he jabbed his spoon towards Clint’s mug. “It is not even 7am.”

“I’m a grown man, I can drink a pot of coffee before 7am if I want to.”

“You drink more coffee when you are upset,” Wanda stated matter-of-factly as she sat down with her own steaming mug. 

“Are you kids really in a position to lecture me?” Clint wondered aloud before he realized that he had said it. “Shit, I—”

“—don’t want to talk about why Natasha is not here?” Wanda coaxed with a raised brow. “We are not children, Clint. Nor are you subtle.” 

“I’m going!” Draining his cup, Clint gathered his phone and jacket from the counter and headed for the elevator. The elevator that— No. No. He couldn’t do that to himself. Just because she had walked out of the argument didn’t mean anything on its own. If Nat needed space, he could give it. Running a hand through his hair, Clint opted for the stairs, pausing to turn back to the twins prying eyes. “Don’t go looking for Nat. I mean it.”

Their eyes never left his back as he retreated down the stairs, not until he was out of sight and (confirmed by a quick trip down by Pietro) earshot. “They are fighting again,” he noted sadly. 

“There is nothing for us to do,” Wanda told him as she put her hand over his. “He is radiating pain, confusion, fear— I will not manipulate his mind, even if seems like it is for the best. Clint would never forgive me if he knew.”

“You’re right.” Pietro knew that beyond her ability to look inside the minds of others, Wanda was closer to Clint than he was. In their year since moving into the Tower, she spent more time with the archer. Deliberately slow, Pietro rose from the chair to take his half-finished bowl to the sink. “I am going to see Sam.”

“Therapy?” His sister’s voice was lighter than it had been moments before, matching the amused look on her face. “For someone who does not like to talk about things, you spend much time with a man who does.” She followed up the jeer with a smile, crossing the room to give him a hug before he could leave. “Go, then. We will talk later.”

“Maybe, sister,” Pietro snorted. “Or perhaps we should take a page from Natasha’s book and not talk at all?”

Wanda elbowed him, lips thinning as she crossed her arms. “Do not say that. Natasha has been nothing but kind to us.”

“What is kindness without love?” Pietro mused as he disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later in different clothes. “Listen to him. Do not go looking for her.”

* * *

 

Balancing a team of superheroes problems didn’t leave a lot of available time to dwell on your own, but somehow, some way, Sam had spent the last two months doing it. Every. Damn. Day. Everything in the Tower had amplified since Wanda’s breakthrough— he’d seen more of her, more of Clint, more of Natasha, and even more of Pietro. With the majority of the team, sans Thor, witnessing Wanda and Bucky’s spar a few weeks prior, there was more to talk about. More to talk about meant more time in Sam’s office, working through their concerns or fears, and more nearly-sleepless nights for Sam. Maybe running on an average of four hours on a good night was the catalyst of his current predicament.

Steve snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face a few times before waving, clearing his throat in an attempt to get his friend’s attention. “Where are you at right now? I’ve been talking to you for five minutes.”

“Sorry.” Sam rubbed his neck as he met Steve’s eyes. “Not sleeping enough, man. When I’ve got someone in here from sunup to well past sundown…”

“You can say no,” Steve lamented. “In fact, you should say no sometimes. You have no time to yourself.”

“Steve, a therapist can’t just—” 

“Everyone deserves a day off!” The patented Captain America voice was now oozing from Steve, which meant it was unlikely he’d take no for an answer. “Maybe I should ask JARVIS to monitor your office hours.”

“Steven!” Sam snapped. “I AM A GROWN ASS MAN AND I CAN—”

“Why are you shouting, Sam?” Pietro called from the doorway. 

Sam’s head snapped up at the interruption, turning to wave at his new intruder. “Just trying to get a word in edgewise over Captain Obvious.” Steve made a face as Sam jerked a thumb his direction. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you had appointments today?” The younger man crossed to lean his elbows on the counter. 

Sam repressed a sigh as he turned to study his wall calendar, noting that Bruce’s scheduled appointment had instead been x’d out— oh, right, reschedule. He consulted his cell’s Google calendar, his texts, and emails before smiling brightly. “For once, I do not. I hope you’re not only here for an appointment?” Sam chuckled. 

“No, I am here to ask you to get out of your ‘damn office’ and have some fun.” Pietro returned the smile warmly. “It seems everyone around here believes you are working too hard.” 

“Did someone put you up to that?” Sam quirked an eyebrow as he glanced at Steve.

Pietro shook his head, silver hair falling further in front of his eyes as he hooked his fingers gingerly in the pockets of his hoodie. “I may have heard the others in the Commons,” the younger man noted as he tilted his head, “but I wanted to spend time with you on my own accord, Sam.”

Steve took this as his cue to exit stage right— err, left, considering the position of the elevator. Picking up his phone, he nodded to Pietro. “Have fun— I expect to hear all about the pizza you two will inevitably consume.”

“You know, I do like other food groups,” Pietro noted dryly as he shoulder-checked Steve’s passing form. “For instance, I am quite fond of pie.”

“Neither of those things go with orange juice,” Steve deadpanned. 

“Why is that your go-to insult?” Sam looked dismayed as he watched Steve’s smirk and wave before the doors closed. “That man is always coming into my apartment, bashing on my orange juice like he owns the joint.”

“Does dating the man who owns the joint count?” Pietro queried. “I enjoy orange juice, what is wrong with it?”

“Go ask Captain Bash-A-Lot!” Sam held up a finger and disappeared down the hall, returning a few minutes later in a change of clothes. “Ready when you are. Figurin’ you probably had a plan, since you’re kidnapping me and all.”

“It is not kidnapping if you are a willing participant.” Rocking back on his heels, Pietro wondered if he should have put more thought into his own casually thrown together outfit— a color-block hoodie comprised of black, grey, and white that Natasha had picked up on some outing or another, paired with jeans, and a pair of blue converse. In contrast, the gym excluded, he had never seen Sam in anything that didn’t look elevated from the rest of their teammates casual mannered clothing. Sam’s quick change had revealed a white t-shirt under a gray, high-collared peacoat, dark wash jeans, and some sort of copper-ish boot (if he had the English term for the color right, that is) that left Pietro subconsciously smoothing his hair and shifting from foot to foot. “He was not wrong about the pizza.”

Sam’s grin was wide, chuckling as he picked up his keys and beckoned Pietro to follow. “I’ll drive, you direct. Never met a pizza I didn’t like.”

* * *

 

What had started as a simple mission for pizza had led Pietro and Sam to gallivanting all over New York, with Sam occasionally noting that there was a ‘shockingly low’ amount of traffic. Given that it was a gloomy Wednesday in September, Pietro shrugged every time he mentioned it, not really familiar with the traffic patterns here yet. To be familiar with traffic, it was probably necessary to drive, which Pietro generally found tedious and annoying. Wanda had acquired a New York state driver’s license months before, waving it excitedly around the Commons and declaring that she could drive Clint’s GT-R (as Clint had paled) legally. It didn’t bother him to be in the passenger’s seat, because if he was, there was no urge to exceed the speed limit. “Why did you choose a car? Do you not enjoy motorcycles like Captain Rogers?”

“You know he prefers Steve, don’t let him hear your ‘Captain Rogers’ crap,” Sam corrected mildly. “I do like bikes, but they aren’t very practical. We live in New York. It is snowy, icy, or just generally cold more of the year than not. I know mister Super Soldier Serum doesn’t have a problem with regulating his body temperature, but I’m not planning on death by frostbite!”

“Are you happy with this?” Pietro gestured to the car, unable to recall the model. Maybe he needed to spend a bit more time on his English, but car models were so often in other languages that it didn’t seem pressing for this conversation. 

“Yeah, I am.” Sam laughed as he glanced at his phone mount on the dash, following the GPS’s instruction to turn left. “Nothing wrong with a classic Camaro. The paint job is custom, but not much else. I wanted it to match my suit. Though if Stark ever gives me a bonus, I wouldn’t turn down a McLaren 570S.”

“I do not know what that is, but I can promise I am still faster than it.”

“Shit, if we’re using that as a measurement system, I’m never going to get a new car.” As Sam slowed to look for the pizza parlor, Pietro gestured down what appeared to resemble an alleyway. “That is not a street.”

“I’m the one who’s been there!” Pietro protested. “I think I know a street when I see it!”

“Clint has been known to prank anyone who is gullible enough to believe him, and if this is a ‘let’s steal Sam’s car but really just take it back to the Tower all in the name of a good laugh’ kind of prank, I am never speaking to either of you again.”

“For the love of all that is reasonable, Sam, turn!” Pietro snorted. “I would not prank you while hungry.”

“That doesn’t mean anything for after the pizza!” Sam cautioned as he parked. “Although I will give you, there is a sign, which is usually an indication of a business.”

“Follow me.” The younger man appeared outside Sam’s window immediately, opening his door with flourish. 

“Has anyone ever mentioned you’re a bit of a show off? Or did that only happen when you moved in with Barton?” Sam quipped as he got out of the car and locked it— three times, for good measure (it looked like a damn alley) before following Pietro into Paulie Gee’s. The younger man had assured him that the food was worth the trip to Brooklyn, which Sam was sure would tickle Heckle and Jeckle’s little Brooklyn boy hearts if they caught wind of it later. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior, which the dark wood wasn’t alleviating in the slightest. Pietro pulled out a chair for Sam before sitting himself, waiting for a server to bring their menus. “I can see Clint somehow has not impacted your manners.”

“My mother would have my ears if I did not act with manners.” Pietro studied the table, lost in thought. “My father was the gruff one, but he still treated her like a queen in his own way.”

Sam put his hand over Pietro’s and squeezed, getting him to look up. “I wish I could have met them. They raised some awesome kids.”

Before Pietro could reply with more than a tight smile, a waiter appeared with menus and asked what he could get them to drink. “Angry Orchard for me, please,” Sam requested. Pietro nodded for one of the same, still unsure about the quality of American beers but figuring it couldn’t hurt to try. 

“Tell me about Sokovia.”

Pietro studied Sam, wondering if this was the therapist side of him or just a genuine curiosity.  _ It doesn’t matter _ , he scolded himself,  _ because you trust him _ . “We had pizza, if you can believe me.”

“No kidding?” Sam leaned back, nodding his thanks to the waiter as the beers were deposited on the table, and tucked an arm behind his head as he settled to listen. “It’s near Russia. Pizza is so… American and Italian. What did you guys put on it?”

“Nothing like you do here!” Pietro chuckled as he flipped his hair away from his face, thinking back to his father making pizza in the kitchen when they were young. “My father loved to make it— when you go to a shop, the menu is always the same, yes? Not in my house. My father, he would always make something new. He would take requests if something turned out well, though. On my birthday, I always wanted the same thing. He thought up this pizza once, probably just to discover what we would eat, that became my favorite. Instead of the sauce, the ah… The red one, that Tony likes, my father this night used tapenade. The olive oil in it made it just right, so the crust would not dry out. Then he would put on Gouda, and over that, fennel and and mint. It should not have tasted good, if you had asked him, but Wanda and I never did. We just ate what he cooked. I loved it, while she despised it.” He was smiling, lost in a happy memory— that hadn’t happened in a long time. It was nice, to remember without feeling like every breath was a pain in his chest. 

“I like to cook, we could try our hand at it some time,” Sam offered as he tipped forward to lean his elbows on the table, “but I can’t promise I’ll eat it.”

Pietro’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I could make Wanda’s favorite for you. It has seven kinds of peppers.”

“Are you trying to kill me? Here I was thinking we were having a good time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise answers are coming, and I'm already working on the next chapter. For now, leave drop me a comment with any speculations on what may happen with Nat! ;)


	7. Not Going Left, Not Going Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha can't hide forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Summer has been kind to me and allowed me to make up for my long absence. I'm back with another chapter! Thank you to h34rt1lly for being my beta in record time. 
> 
> The title is taken from Losing My Mind, a song written by Stephen Sondheim for the musical "Follies" and most notably sung by Liza Minnelli. 
> 
> DO NOT READ THE NEXT SET OF NOTES IF YOU ARE A PURIST WHO WANTS NO SPOILERS WHATSOEVER. 
> 
> Okay, I use some Russian and make references to a) a deleted scene from Civil War and b) a choice Natasha made in the comics (though I don't recall which run specifically) that I think should be noted to avoid any confusion. I clarify some of the Russian along the way, but I'm going to masterlist them right here-- please note I do not speak Russian and had to source the words from the internet in various locations, so if you do, please correct me if I'm wrong. 
> 
> Khrushchyovka-- Slang for a type of Russian apartment building  
> моей лисы-- Little Fox  
> вампир-- Vampire  
> любимый-- Direct translation to "favorite," however I found usage suggesting it was more of "dearest"  
> Монстр-- Monster  
> Антонина Иванов. Виктория Михайлов. Диана Соколов. These are simply a string of fictional names I pulled from Russian first names combined with surnames.  
> моей лисы-- My darling  
> Сдача-- I surrender
> 
> Reference to Alexi: In one of the comic runs, Natasha is briefly married to a KGB spy by the name of Alexi Shostakov, aka Red Guardian.  
> The children in the hospital: From a deleted scene in Civil War. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! Thank you for reading. <3

Bucky Barnes spent a lot of time in his apartment. He felt secure there— security didn’t feel like comfort, but it was stable. Comfort was a thing you enjoyed. For Bucky, that meant the gym, the commons, or Steve’s floor. Moving about the rest of the Tower was mentally taxing, something he only did when necessary. Though he was working on these feelings with Sam, it was a process to tackle 70 years of negative cognitive conditioning, let alone undo it. He had never told anyone that coming to his floor was the best way to approach him, but somehow, word got around here. While most of the floors in the Tower allowed for the elevator to simply stop inside the apartment itself, Steve had insisted to Stark that Bucky needed more security to feel comfortable with living there. He couldn’t argue with that, nodding when Tony had explained the renovation delays (which he spent in Steve’s company) that allowed for a foyer between the elevator and his entry door. Stark wasn’t so bad. 

Hearing a knock on his door, Bucky paused the movie he was watching— Kinky Boots, at Sam’s insistence in some offhand conversation— to answer it. Bruce, Tony, and Clint were gathered on the other side, uncharacteristically quiet. “This isn’t a social call,” he concluded with a sigh as he nudged the door open wider.

“Not this time,” Clint confirmed as he tucked his hands in his pockets. “Do you… mind if we come in?”

Bucky gestured to the table, shutting the door behind Bruce as the trio dispersed around his dining table. Rolling the elastic off of his wrist, Bucky shoved his hair into a high bun— it couldn’t distract him as much up there— as a pressing sense of nauseating dread crept over him. “What happened?”

“No one has seen Natasha since Monday,” Bruce disclosed as he pulled off his glasses. “We were hoping you might know where to find her.”

Bucky dropped into the chair beside Bruce and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since Monday? It’s Friday. What the hell, Clint?” He cast a glance across the table, trying to make eye contact. “What was she doing? Did something upset her?”

Clint met his eyes now, letting out a breath and leaning forward on his elbows. “We got in a fight. She was smoking and—”

“She hasn’t smoked since Russia.” Bucky’s eyes went wide, steepling his fingers before nodding for Clint to continue.

“As I was saying,” Clint sighed as he narrowed his eyes at Bucky, “we fought about her smoking, and it lead to… well, it doesn’t matter. She told me I didn’t have to worry about waking up to her smoking anymore, packed a bag, and was gone before I could tell her to wait. Apparently, no one has seen her since.”

“Not even JARVIS?” Barnes queried with a frown. He saw the shake of Tony’s head and felt all of the blood drain from his face. That meant she wasn’t even here, in the Tower, where it was safe. “Clint, what was the real fight about?”

“I just told you!” 

“You just bullshitted me and we all know it!” Bucky snapped. “You came to me asking for help, which means you think I’ll know something you three couldn’t figure out. How can I puzzle it out if I don’t know what the fucking problem is? Do. Not. Say. Cigarettes.”

“The twins.” 

Tony was up fast enough to send the chair clattering to the floor, slamming his hands down on the table. “You couldn’t have said that before?”

“Tony,” Bruce warned, “I’m sure Clint told us what he felt comfortable with—”

“Can you all kindly shut up?” Bucky shouted over them. “I’m going to talk to Sam.”

“He can’t tell you anything,” Clint protested. “I’ve already tried. Patient confidentiality, Barnes. Not even the Winter Soldier can make him change his mind.”

Bucky was on his feet, tugging on his leather jacket from the hook by the door and palming the keys to his bike. “I don’t need him to tell me her secrets. I just need to read his body language.”

“James,” Bruce hadn’t gotten up from his chair, speaking more to the table. “I know what it’s like to not want to be found.”

“So do I.”

Tony’s mouth had thinned to a hard line the longer he had listened, but he hadn’t cut anyone else off.  _ Maybe Steve is a positive influence on him after all _ , Bucky noted as he reached into his side drawer to tuck a knife into his boot. “I don’t like this, you going off alone when the last thing she did was ghost on Clint,” Tony warned. 

“Who else is going to find her?” Bucky retorted, not even pausing to wait for a response. He was already walking down the hall to retrieve a pistol, slipping it into a hip holster in his jeans. 

“Why armed?” Clint managed, staring sadly at the now-concealed holster. “She wouldn’t hurt you.”

“She tried to strangle me with piano wire just a few years ago.”

“Natasha was fighting against the Winter Soldier, who was trying to kill her, not against James Barnes.”

Bruce opened his mouth before thinking better of it, closing it and shaking his head as Tony put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Let him do this his way. We’re getting nowhere wondering and worrying.”

All Clint could do was watch Bucky go, door barely making a sound behind him as he exited his own apartment, leaving them to wonder. It felt familiar, like watching Natasha leave— wordless, detached, and efficient. Shrugging Tony’s hand off as he stood, he caught Bruce’s eye. “You’re right— he will do it his way. Because his way and hers are one and the same.” 

* * *

 

_ 8:23pm  _

Sam would be in the gym for his evening circuit with Steve, Bucky had concluded as he took the stairs. The elevator felt too confining— he could go faster without it, clearing his head and reaching his destination without triggering his own version of panic. Clint’s tone, posture, and few words were weighed down with defeat.  _ Was this really about just finding Natasha? _

That wasn’t how a boyfriend (or whatever they called themselves these days), desperate for his partner to come home, acted. That was how a man who knew he had been rejected would. 

_ How could a fight about the twins lead to _ — shit, he could think about that later. He needed to speak to Sam, and maybe the twins, before he could narrow the search. 

Tony’s terse responses in his apartment were a sharp reminder that Stark didn’t like handing the reigns over to anyone else, but he hadn’t micromanaged the situation (thus far) like in the stories the others told. Progress is progress, one way or another. Bruce seemed to have been brought along to act a buffer between the despair and the tension that clung to the situation, something Bucky was unexpectedly grateful for. Someone outside of Steve, Natasha, and Sam truly trusted him to work on his own. Failing to locate Natasha wasn’t an option, not with that weighing on him, not with their past, and certainly not with Clint’s words stuck on repeat:  _ She wouldn’t hurt you. _

Rounding the corner as he approached the gym, Bucky yanked the door open with more force than necessary. The hideous sound of the hinges grinding in an attempt to keep up with the force of his arm had Steve looking up with a wince before he ever crossed the threshold. Not bothering to apologize or stall, Bucky crossed the floor with a simple nod to Steve. “Sam?”

“He’s changing,” Steve supplied as he set the bar he had been dead-lifting back on the rack. “Seemed upset about something and said he wanted to take off early.”

“Probably about the same thing Bruce, Tony, and Clint just bombarded me with.”

Steve pulled his shirt up to wipe a trail of sweat from his brow, sighing heavily at the look on Bucky’s face. “Natasha?”

“You knew?”

“I hadn’t seen her, but I didn’t explicitly know she was missing in action,” Steve corrected. “I would have told you.”

“Why does everyone suddenly assume they need to come to me about Natasha?” Bucky sputtered. “I’m not her boyfriend, or her damn keeper.”

“No, you aren’t.” Sam was standing at the other end of the room, but must have caught just enough to have something to input. “But you were.”

“Why does everyone keep alluding to this being somehow my responsibility because of something that happened with her and I a lifetime ago?!” Bucky was bristling, ignoring the warning look Steve was shooting him. “It’s not like any of that matters anymore!”

“Says who?” Sam challenged coolly as he walked back into the room, picking up his bag and shaking his head. “It wasn’t a lifetime ago for her. She never forgot about it.”

Steve cleared his throat and crossed his arms, turning to Sam wordlessly. Sam’s eyes widened, realizing what he had just said. “Shit, goddammit, that… Look man, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard about her.”

“Whatever story you need to tell yourself, Sam,” Bucky muttered as he processed the weight of his friend’s allegations. “They tried to beat it out of me. Every time I woke up, eventually, I would remember her. I searched for her.” Steve met his eyes, something buried beneath the surface that he wasn’t saying to Bucky as he listened. “Whatever you have to say, spit it out, Steve.”

Straightening his back, Steve drew himself just a little taller. Bucky recognized the mannerism from a time before the serum, when he would try to match Bucky’s height as he tried to negotiate some point or another. The memory winded him, just a little— and a little more as Steve opened his mouth. 

“Can you really say it was a lifetime ago? How can you, when you just said you never forgot? I’m not her therapist,” Steve spoke slowly and cast a glance at Sam, “but I am her friend. When there was no you, no Sam, hell no Tony… There was Nat. And she’ll kill me for this, but I don’t care. She spent years looking for you, calling you a ‘ghost story’ that she could never catch no matter how long she chased. You were like smoke, slippin’ through ‘er fingers, Buck. Meeting Clint gave her something else, some way to get over the gaping hole that having you ripped away from her left. D’ya really expect me t’uh think you had no damn idea since you came t’uh?”

The Brooklyn slipping between Steve’s teeth knocked the wind out of him. No one could hide cues from the Winter Soldier, but no James Buchanan Barnes could get away from Steve without being read like a book. “Where are the twins?” He managed, averting his eyes from Steve’s disappointed gaze. “Need t’uh speak with ‘em.”

“Probably at home,” Sam advised warily, “but neither of them are too happy that Nat up and left. Good luck with that.”

“I don’t need luck. I just need direction.”

* * *

 

Wanda opened the door before Bucky had even raised a hand to knock. He wasn’t as startled by this as he used to be, understanding now that she was subconsciously probing the immediate surrounding area during all of her waking hours. As he understood, this had started not long after the accident and was one of the few things that she had kept working on as a small measure of control. Up until a month ago when they had sparred, that is. 

“James,” she muttered quietly, glancing over her shoulder at her brother. “It is late.” She stepped aside, brushing her hair out of her eyes and gesturing for him to come in.

“I hate imposing.” Bucky was still standing outside her door, hesitant to enter her room even with an invitation. He could see that Pietro wasn’t sleeping, stretched across his sister’s bed on his stomach with a pillow tucked under his chin. “I need to speak to both of you.”

“We have not seen her,” Pietro mumbled as he pressed his face into the pillow. “If that is all you are here to ask, your time is wasted.”

“Thankfully for all of us, there isn’t any time wasted on questions I already know the answer to.” Bucky liked Pietro, but the ice in his tone served as a reminder that he wasn’t here for a frivolous chat. “Were either of you awake when she left that night?” 

Wanda shook her head, drawing her arms across her chest. “I do not think she would have left the way she did if we had been. She was very quiet.”

“I do not agree.” Pietro had rolled to his side and propped himself up with an elbow,  eyes narrowed at his sister. “She does not like us being here. It was bound to happen.”

“Pietro!” Wanda scolded. “This is her home!”

“This is our home, too!” Her twin retorted.

“Excuse me!” Bucky’s voice cut over their bickering. “What was she acting like before she left? That day, or even that week? Did she say anything that seemed out of character?”

“Why do you care so much?” The venom in Pietro’s tone had been replaced by curiosity. Wanda gave him a warning look, but he waved her off, eyes never leaving Bucky’s face. 

“She’s my teammate.” The answer was automatic, something that he could have heard himself saying about anybody in the Tower with the same level of confidence.

“Is that all?” 

Wanda smacked her brother’s leg, her eyes flashing red with annoyance. “That is none of our business.”

“It’s alright, Wanda,” Bucky said dismissively. “It appears that there are no secrets in this Tower.” He finally stepped into Wanda’s room to join them, sitting on the floor beside her bed so he was level with Pietro as he spoke again. “Everyone thinks that our past partnership-- in some way or another-- means that we have some profound and unbreakable bond. What everyone fails to understand is that their assumptions are based on very little information. We didn’t meet in some romantic little cafe and share this fleeting glance that led to a relationship. We were shells of human beings who happened to be in the same place at the same time, under the same fucked up leadership. Just because I understand some things about Natasha that most people don’t, doesn’t mean that we are soulmates, or that she is cheating on Clint, or that I’m the one keeping her sane and level. It just means that once again, we are in the same place at the same time.” 

Pietro dropped flat on the bed once again, quiet as he rationalized what Bucky had just told him. Wanda nudged Bucky’s boot with her toe, acknowledging that she heard him but having nothing comforting or compelling to say in return. 

“The past two weeks, Natasha has been gone a lot. She started smoking at night, after Clint would go to sleep. Whenever she left, no matter the time, she would take her pointe shoes.” Pietro’s voice was hardly above a whisper as he gazed toward the ceiling, wondering if he had missed something that could have prevented this. “I never told Clint about it,” he confessed. “Nor Wanda. I was up earlier than they were, or awake later-- I was often the only one awake as she would come and go.” Pietro shot a pleading glance at his sister, who he knew had no ill will toward Natasha even as things were now, and mouthed ‘I’m sorry.’ 

“Do you hate her so much that you would hide this?” Wanda snapped, rubbing her eyes to ward off the tears that hovered in her lashes. “Do you like to see Clint get hurt?!”

“Of course not!” 

Bucky held up a hand to stop them. “That is what I needed to know. Thank you, Pietro. I’ll leave you two to talk.” 

“Wait.” Wanda’s voice was soft. “James.” She held out her hand, palm up, and waited for him to meet her in the middle. “One more moment.”

Standing to meet her reach, he breathed out, knowing what she was asking for and steeling himself for the known. He placed his palm against Wanda’s and waited for her to show him something, anything. A feeling not entirely dissimilar to electroshock “therapy” startled him as her aching pain rippled through him, followed by a twinge of resentment. She showed him only one thing, but it was all he needed: an address, as clear as though he were seeing it through his own eyes. Dropping her hand, Bucky shivered at the change in conscious states, trying to ground himself as he counted his breaths in and out. Pietro was up, arms wrapped around his sister as he  _ shhh’d  _ against her tears. He left them there, knowing they could work it out, as he headed back to the elevator. 

“JARVIS-- find me the fastest route to Greene Street.” 

* * *

 

Of all the places Natasha could have picked to hide out (she had a passport for crying out loud), SoHo was not on the top of Bucky’s “possibilities” list. Pietro’s comment about her long hours and shoes told him a few things that set a match to his train of thought. Before, he’d predominantly suspected that she may have gone upstate to a former SHIELD safe house. 

Knowing that she wasn’t dancing in the Tower’s studio, he had asked Clint en-route where her preferred ballet studio was. 

_ SoHo, but why does that matter?  _

Promising to explain later, Bucky guided the bike in accordance to JARVIS’s comm directions in his helmet. “JARVIS, which of these buildings have empty units?” he demanded as he slowed to take a tight turn. “She didn’t take a car and there’s no way she’s using public transit.” 

_ The sixth floor penthouse in building 121 is the nearest empty unit,  _ JARVIS noted  in his ear. 

Taking stock of where the building was located, he parked his bike a few blocks away, tucking the helmet under his arm and walking back to investigate further. The first thing Bucky noticed was that none of the floors looked occupied, only under construction. The second thing was the fire escapes that stopped a floor below the penthouse. 

_ Damn it.  _

Thankfully it was already dark, which eliminated playing the waiting game to avoid being spotted by concerned upper-class neighbors. SoHo wasn’t a particularly friendly area, given the high volume of elite-- which made perfect sense if Natasha was hiding out here. 

Shoving his helmet back on to avoid juggling it, Bucky took a running start to jump and grab the ladder. It didn’t matter that it was rusted-- he wasn’t looking to pull it down, only to go up. The benefits of the metal arm struck again as he pulled up, hard, and swung onto the first platform. Repeating this process a few more times landed him at the fifth floor, just close enough to scale the exterior molding and make it onto the roof. Buildings like this generally favored roof access to increase the price point, and he was banking on that accessibility as he gripped the edge of the rooftop and pushed upwards. 

_ John Ruskin would be disappointed to hear that I’m only becoming more agitated by my toil _ , he sighed internally. 

An author from the 1800s, Bucky could remember hearing the quote from his ma when he was a child. “ The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.”  _ He probably didn’t expect that interpretative view, though.  _

Crossing the roof, he found what he had been hoping for: a door to a stairwell. The lock was rusted to the doorframe, but that wasn’t anything a well-placed punch with a metal fist couldn’t fix. All signs pointed to two possibilities about Natasha’s mindset; either she wasn’t expecting him to be the one looking for her (or else she would have hidden herself with the skills he knew she had), or she wanted to be found. The lack of reinforcement on the door had him speculating that the latter was more likely. Rolling his ankle to feel the reassuring press of a knife handle, he breathed out as he descended the stairs with caution. It could be anyone here-- or no one. This was his best course of action, no matter the outcome. 

The hallway security lighting was on, dim but present. There were other residents in the building, so the power was unsurprising. His helmet, too much to carry on the way up, was a further impairment that he didn’t need as he pulled it off and stowed it next to the stairs. 

Dropping to a crouch, he ghosted along the opposite wall, careful to not a cast a shadow under the sole door. Bucky slid upwards on the opposing side, noting that the door handle was probably as old as he was.  _ Damn near impossible to hide the sound that will make when twisted.  _

He’d come this far, and going through the exterior street-facing window would lead to more problems. Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, Bucky turned the door handle and nudged it open with his shoulder before pulling back. This ensured a wide view of the room and a nearly-silent (the iron handle was in serious need of replacement, or at least some WD-40) entry. 

“It took you long enough.” The words were calm as Natasha spoke from somewhere inside the penthouse. “You might as well come in, James.”

Cursing the door handle once again, he drew himself straight once more and allowed a glance inside. She had the lights on now, as dim as the hall he stood in-- but there were few shadows to cast. For sale and “in need” of remodeling, he could see her clearly, leaning against one of the characteristic pillars that peppered the enormous space. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, pointe shoes carefully wrapped together on top of her coat, resting in a pile on the floor. 

There was a thick coating of dust over the creaking hardwood that billowed as he stepped inside, eyes locked on hers. “How did you know I would be the one to come?”

“I didn’t,” she replied easily, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, “but I knew someone would, and why not you?” She lit it and took a drag, eyes never leaving his as Bucky leaned against the brick wall. 

“You took shelter in a glorified Khrushchyovka, моей лисы .”  He crossed the room slowly, letting her see his every move, before taking a cigarette and lighting it himself. “Who else would realize?”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore, вампир,” Natasha snapped hotly. “And buy your own fucking cigarettes.” 

“Ah, so I can’t call you ‘little fox’ but you can call me a ‘vampire?’” Bucky mused as he held the cigarette, watching it burn without taking a drag. “I didn’t realize blood-sucking monsters came looking for old friends.”

Dropping the cigarette to the floor, she ground it out with her bare heel (he couldn’t even wince-- they’d been through worse) before coming to stand in front of him. In that moment, he was grateful for those precious two inches of height he had over her, shifting to stand just a bit taller. He didn’t want to be eye to eye as she studied him, head cocked to the side and lips pressed tight. She narrowed her eyes at his tactic, tipping her chin up to bore into him despite it. “Old friends? You’ve never been my friend.”

“I have,” Bucky corrected her. “The past few years, we have been friends.”

He expected her to retort with anger, but hadn’t been prepared for her peel of mocking laughter. Head thrown back, eyes closed, and laughing as though it was the most ridiculous thing he could have possibly said to her.  _ Maybe it was. _ Maybe they’d been pretending to be something else, something they simply couldn’t be. 

“I don’t want to be your friend.” The laughter was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, as Natasha took a step closer. He could see the exhaustion in her face, the dullness of her hair, and smell the smoke that clung to her as though it were her only intake. It probably was, and she probably wasn’t sleeping more than meager short spans. “You didn’t want to be my friend,  любимый. Friends don’t teach each other to kill.”

“I was never the person you thought I was.”

“Prove it,” she dared him, pressing against his torso to whisper in his ear. “Show me the person you are.”

“I have killed, like you.” His tone was even as he closed his eyes, sure of the chapter he was closing before he even spoke another word. “But I am a different kind of monster, Natalia. I remember all of them, with remorse, and pain. I had no choice.”

“That doesn’t make you better than me!” she hissed, grabbing his hand and pulling it to her face. “That makes us the same!”

“No.” Opening his eyes, he pressed his palm to her face where she had drawn it. “Монстр, a monster… That is only when you remain what they’ve made you. You are still, in part, what they wanted you to be.” He didn’t want to do this.  _ Forgive me, Natasha.  _ “I have faced it, accepted it. You are still hiding from what you have done.” 

Her eyes are bloodshot, another sign of her exhaustion, and he didn’t like pushing her closer to falling into an abyss of pain. He just hoped Sam was ready to pick up the pieces he was about to create. 

“What does that make you, James? You’re hiding.” Natasha’s hips pressed closer, pinning him to the wall. She had to have known the few motions it would take to disentangle them, yet she came closer, inhaling so close to his lips that it felt as though she was trying to steal his oxygen. “You’ve hid from me since you first saw Clint, didn’t you?”

“You were happy.” Knowing he had to measure his words, he turned his head away from her, avoiding the closeness she was imposing upon him. “You could have stayed that way, Natasha, if you weren’t so damn self-destructive.”

“You used to like me for being volatile and unpredictable.” 

Her hand was sliding behind his neck and Bucky knew, really knew, that it should have been harder to say no to her. She wanted it to be hard, was outright banking on it-- if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be doing this. 

“But then you ruined the one prediction I had.” Slipping his fingers into hers, he drew her into the few inches she had left between them-- only to get the upper hand. As soon as her lips parted in anticipation, he spun them to pin her to the wall, fingers still locked in Natasha’s. “I thought I knew everything about you, Natalia. I thought I knew your every move.” 

“Don’t do this.” Her tone was a caution, but her eyes betrayed her. The one thing she’d never been able to hide from him. 

“To think you’d go back to the KGB, when you heard about Alexi,” he continued with venom, “and become just another puppet.” She was crying, and he hated every second of it, of feeling more like the Winter Soldier and less like everything he was today. But if he had to break her to bring her back, then he would. “And you followed every order, just like you were trained to, Natalia. I might have been proud of you-- if you hadn’t killed them.”

“Stop it!” Natasha sobbed. She wasn’t fighting back, which meant she was trying to shut down, become nothing more than the soldier they had made her. 

“Антонина Иванов. Виктория Михайлов. Диана Соколов. Shall I go on?”

“Who?” Her voice was a ragged whisper, eyes closing to shut out his words. “Who told you their names?”

“Their parents.”

She looked at him now, eyes wide with horror as recognition hit her. “You didn’t!” Natasha screamed, fighting his grip on her now. “Tell me you did not speak to them!”

“I spoke to every single one,” he affirmed, “before I went to Bucharest, I found them. And do you know what they said?” He waited for her to respond, but was only met with another harsh sob. “They forgave you, моей лисы. They forgave a broken-hearted, brainwashed spy for murdering their children in that hospital.”

“ Сдача.” 

One word that he had never heard, in their entire time together. Their safe word,  _ I surrender,  _ that they’d agreed on so long ago. He could see her, younger, stronger, more defiant even in his memory.  _ I’d never surrender,  _ she laughed then.  _ Then it truly will be safe,  _ he’d agreed as he kissed her hair. But that wasn’t now. That was two people who no longer existed. Here, now, he had the broken spirit of a woman he’d once loved… and now, pinning her to the wall, he hated that memory. He hated that word, and the feelings it dredged up. 

“Come,” he muttered as he dropped her hands in favor of wrapping his arms around her. “Let me take you home.”


	8. I'm Livin' For the Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family bonding, car rides, and more-- everyone needed something lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This chapter is the band-aid I offer after what I did in my last two. I promise, there's a purpose to everything, just hang in there. If you're still following along, I want to say thank you. 
> 
> As always, thank you to h34rt11ly for being my beta. 
> 
> Settle in and enjoy!

Steve and Tony had been spending an increasing amount of time together in the last few months, which didn’t surprise anyone due to the honeymoon timing of their official relationship status. Even with such an increase, they both tried to been aware of what was going on with the rest of the team— their friends. Natasha’s stunt the week before had shaken everyone, Clint in particular, while Sam was still left picking up the slack of everyone’s inner demons. Steve was pouring coffee into mugs as Tony picked at his nails, lost in thought. “Care to share?” Steve cajoled him as he pushed the mug into Tony’s waiting fingers.

“I’m just thinking,” Tony said absently as he brought the mug to his lips and drained it. “More?”

Steve sighed but obliged him, pouring another cup and leaning against the opposite side of the bar. He slid a hand across the counter top to give Tony’s hand a squeeze, head ducked to stare at his boyfriend. “You’re always thinking. What’s going on up there today?” 

“JARVIS told me that Clint hasn’t left his apartment since Natasha came back here.” 

Tony looked every bit his age, worry lines pulling at his brows and eyes bloodshot from the piss-poor sleep he’d had recently. Steve knew he worried, but it wasn’t until these recent months that he’d realized just how much Tony took on as a personal burden. His boyfriend looked tired, right down to his very bones and soul. Steve pulled a hand through his hair and studied his own (untouched) cup of coffee, wondering if he should pry further or drop it. Thankfully, it wasn’t a decision he had to make. 

“Maybe I made a mistake.” Tony’s soft words startled Steve enough to make him look up, hands reaching to lace his fingers in Tony’s as he went on. “I sent Barnes after her, and brought her back here to a new floor like it could all the be okay. But maybe I hurt him, worsened what she did.” Tony drew their interlaced hands upward, kissing one of Steve’s fingers. “Would you tell me if you thought I was wrong?”

“I’d be the first one to tell you,” Steve snorted as he dropped Tony’s hands in favor of cradling his face. “Tony, we do things for the people we love that we wouldn’t do for anyone else. Don’t try to tell me you don’t love every single person on this team, because I’ll call you a liar faster than you can get the words out.” He paused, waiting for any objection from Tony, before continuing, “He needs time, and space. People handle grief in different ways.”

“Is he grieving?” Tony muttered as he closed his eyes, as though simply blocking out Steve’s face would shield him from the thought. “What is there to grieve?”

“The loss of the love of his life? The disruption to his family?” Steve insisted. “I grieved when Bucky was drafted before me, hell instead of me. Loss and upset and change in routine… All of it can hurt like hell. It isn’t all about death.” 

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t haul him and Pietro up here tonight?”

Steve laughed, letting go to Tony and picking up his coffee. “Not at all. I’ll go see Sam and Bucky. Make sure you invite Peter— in fact, you could do it on his floor. Just don’t bring up Natasha.”

“That I can do,” Tony consented and picked up his mug once more. “I’d propose a cheers, but I’d rather not crack your mug. I know it’s your favorite.”

Steve glanced down at the arc reactor mug, which appeared to glow when hot liquid was poured into it. Rather than try denying it, he shrugged, taking it with him as he headed for the bathroom. “I’m going to go shower, and this mug is coming with me.”

“What about the real thing?” Tony called after him, wiggling his eyebrows in mock seduction. “I’m prettier!”

“Never said you weren’t invited!” 

Coffee forgotten, Tony hopped off his stool to follow, rubbing the spot on his chest where the ceramic arc reactor’s counterpart pulsed with light. Steve’s mug was a reminder of the thing he’d never forget.  _ Poetic, really _ , Tony mused as he glanced at it,  _ that something so insignificant _ ,  _ in the hands of someone I’m so unyieldingly bound to, would paint a picture of everything I can never forget.  _

* * *

 

_ Movies. Food. Your place. 6pm. _

The text from Tony, in his typical staccato fashion that had probably been dictated to JARVIS amid some other activity, didn’t surprise Peter. Except, you know, the whole “your place” bit. ‘Not the Commons?’ Peter replied as he glanced around his living room. True, it was his place in theory— it was his floor, his apartment, gifted by Mister (Tony) Stark. Still, Peter still associated it with the Tower, which meant it was more of his room within someone else’s house. Whenever he mentioned this to Tony, he was met with an eye roll and a nudge. “I own everyone’s floor, but I’m just the landlord,” he’d insisted the last time. When Peter had tried to input a ‘but Mister Stark’ he’d only been shot down with, “TONY, Peter, honestly. Mister Stark has been dead for 25 years.” Bruce had chuckled sympathetically from his side of the lab. “You get used to it, Peter.” 

_ Negative, Spiderling. Clint and Pietro. And, obviously, me. _

Peter couldn’t help but smile at the shift in Tony’s language, typed by hand instead of dictation (he’d wager anyways) this time. “Well, I guess we better start cleaning,” he remarked to his kitten as he scratched her ear. “Although I have a feeling you’ll just chase the vacuum cord or try to eat the duster.” The Siamese nipped at his fingers and nestled against his stomach, content to stay in their spot on the couch rather than let her dad get anything accomplished. 

“Oh no, Silk, that isn’t going to work.” He scooped her up, met by a mewl of disapproval, and deposited her back on the couch with a grin. Although cleaning wasn’t Peter’s favorite task, it wasn’t all that hard with two bodies— one of them being a furball. Aside from that, there was the allure of guys’ night approaching in a few hours. For that, he could be swayed to tidy. And pizza. Mister Stark wouldn’t skip the pizza. “Jarvis, can I get some music?” Peter called as he retrieved the vacuum. 

“Certainly, Peter,” the AI’s voice replied. A moment later, one of his play-lists wafted from the speakers. 

“Are you going to help me?” Peter called to Silk as he started the vacuum. She hopped off of the couch, disappearing toward his bedroom without a glance back at the machine that had interrupted her cuddles. “I didn’t think so.” 

* * *

 

Tony bounded out of the elevator, Clint and Pietro in tow, and waved to Peter. “Hey, kid.” Arching a brow at the vacuum lines in the carpet, he flopped onto the couch and nudged Peter with his shoulder. “You didn’t have to clean on my account.”

“Who said I did?” Peter fumbled. “Maybe I cleaned for Clint.”

“Now you definitely have lost your mind. Is that Gain-scented Febreze I smell?” Clint snorted as he set three pizza boxes on the table. “Did we think to get drinks?”

“The fact that you know what scent of Febreze I used means I’m not the only one who’s lost my mind!”

“I will go get them from the Commons,” Pietro declared as he disappeared. A few moments later, he was setting an assortment of beer, soda, and a bottle of scotch on Peter’s table. Tony tipped his head in appreciation, heaving off of the couch to retrieve glasses. 

“Really, I can get everyone—” Peter began to protest.

“We’re guests!” Pietro chastised him. 

“Guests who happen to live in the same vicinity and know where to locate things, sure,” Clint agreed as he popped the cap off of his beer. “You gonna share that scotch, Stark?”

Having his usually empty floor filler with banter and chatter was comfortable for Peter. He collected plates and tossed a crinkle ball that had rolled under the table in the general direction of the hallway, spying Silk leaping to catch (and eat) it. Peeling back the lid of the first pizza box, he brightened at the chicken, onion, and barbecue sauce that was nestled inside. “DIBS!” 

“I wanted that!” Clint argued as he stuck a fork in a slice of pizza and dropped it onto his plate. “I guess I can share, since we’re invading your floor and all— but if you think I have claimed any less than half of this pizza, you will be disappointed.”

“That pizza is the size of your torso!” Pietro laughed as he wiggled another box from the bottom of the stack. “Fine, if you two get that, I am claiming half of this one!”

“That’s banana pepper and ham! I picked that!” Tony howled. “Vultures, the lot of you. I pick, I pay, and what do I get?” Three slices of pizza appeared in a blur on his plate just as a parm pack bounced off of his temple. “Apparently, I get assault with my pizza, courtesy of the Maximoff male.”

“Alright alright, what the hell movie are we watching?” Clint raised his voice as he ushered everyone in the general direction of the couch, taking care not to step on the kitten as he went. “No romances.”

“Are those off the table permanently?” Tony mused, sitting next to him and bumping knees as he lifted his scotch. “Or just on a temporary leave of absence?” 

“Tony!” Pietro admonished him. 

“People are going to ask, leave him be,” Clint sighed as he tipped back the glass. “I would say off the table until further notice, and not renewing for another season either.” 

Peter dropped to the floor to lean against the ottoman, listening to the two older men. Did they think they were being vague, or were their thinly veiled comments supposed to be so obvious? Pietro appeared next to him, already chewing his second slice of pizza. The speed demon thing could still make Peter jump. “What about Creed?”

“I doubt Pietro has seen any of the Rocky movies,” Clint noted with a raised brow. “Why not start at the beginning?” Beside him, Tony shrugged in neutrality, which Clint took as a vote for yes. “Jarvis, we’ve got Rocky right?” 

“Correct, Clint,” Jarvis noted as the TV flickered on, “Sir has all of Sylvester Stallone’s movies logged in his private server.” 

They all settled in as the movie started, Pietro’s expression shifting between confusion and fascination throughout the duration. At some point, Tony had gotten up and made popcorn while Clint had stretched across the couch and propped his head up on a pillow. Silk kept batting at the popcorn bowl, eyes wide and sharp in her search for forgotten pieces— it was the only thing they’d heard Clint laugh over in weeks. Peter scooped the curious kitten up and set her on Clint’s chest, where she made herself comfortable and purred loud enough to distract from the dialog of the film. 

As the credits came on screen, Tony finished his second glass of scotch and nudged Clint with an elbow. “What about these two?” He gestured to Peter and Pietro with his glass. “When are they going to find an Adrian?”

Peter flushed and rubbed his neck, studying the ceiling to avoid Tony’s comment. Pietro shrugged, tossing popcorn into his mouth as he debated. “Do you mean when will we find girlfriends?” 

“Not necessarily,” Clint corrected, pointing his beer at Tony, “considering Mister Loudmouth over here has a boyfriend.”

“I don’t know.” Peter rolled his shoulders, fiddling with his cup as he spoke. “Dr. Banner is happy alone. Why does everyone need an Adrian?”

“They don’t.” Clint’s voice had sobered as he pushed himself into a sitting position, staring at the title screen on the TV. “Maybe that’s the secret— you don’t have to need anyone. You have to want them, if they’re going to stick around.”

“Who said I do not have someone?” Pietro pondered aloud. “I do want him to stick around, but I do not, as you say Clint, ‘need’ him.”

“Is it Sam?” Clint said quietly. 

Tony glanced down at Pietro now, and Peter stilled next to him, waiting for a verdict. 

“It is.” Pietro said it like it was the easiest conclusion he’d ever come to, with no hesitation or doubt. “I was happy before I met him, but I am happier now that I have. I want that, for a long time.”

Tony patted Pietro’s shoulder, his empty glass forgotten on the sofa. “Have you told him?” 

“No,” Pietro admitted quietly as he pushed his hair upward to keep it out of his eyes. 

“You should.” Clint’s voice was low, but his tone commanded everyone’s attention, hanging on his next breath as they waited for his assessment.  “When you find someone who makes you as happy as you make them, it works. You don’t need each other, but you want their company. As long as you have that, you should tell him. I know he wouldn’t hurt you.”

Pietro pushed himself to his feet, deliberately slow, to sit back down next to Clint. Clint wrapped an arm around Pietro’s shoulders to pull him in for a hug, and Tony exchanged a glance with Peter. 

“I want happiness for you too, Peter,” Tony muttered. He wasn’t sure if Peter had heard him, but it didn’t matter— he’d tell him, in his own way, in his own time. This moment wasn’t about Tony Stark. 

* * *

 

Inviting Sam and Bucky over to his place had sounded like a great idea to Steve— until Sam and Bucky were in the same space for five minutes. His floor wasn’t small, like anyone else’s, but with two restless bodies it seemed to reduce by hundreds of square feet. The subtle shifting of the plates in Bucky’s arm as he fidgeted, Sam’s pacing through the kitchen, and the thrum of his own heartbeat had Steve ready to borrow Peter’s suit in order to climb out the window. 

“Alright, this isn’t working!” Steve clapped his hands together and reached for a stack of local restaurant menu ads on the counter. Dividing the stack in half, he dropped one in Bucky’s lap, and one on the counter next to Sam. “Find somewhere for us to go, we’re not staying.”

“It was your idea for us to come over,” Bucky noted dryly as he thumbed through them, “but fine. I don’t care, as long as they have beer.”

“Not vodka?” Steve chided as he kicked his friend’s foot. 

“Could we not talk about anything related to Russia?” Bucky snapped as he swatted at Steve with a menu. “At least for the evening, Steven.”

“I wouldn’t test that Winter Soldier tone if I were you,” Sam called from the kitchen. “I didn’t know anyone called you Steven.”

“Only when he’s pissin’ me off!” Bucky pushed off of the couch, shoving Steve as he left, to investigate what Sam’s pick was. “Well, aside from me, his ma always did.”

“That doesn’t count,” Sam countered as he dropped his stack back on the counter. “None of this looks good, Rogers. Can’t we get out of NYC for a while?”

Steve glanced at the clock. It was only 6:10, plenty of evening left to wrangle these two somewhere else and be back before he’d rather be in bed. Nodding, he glanced between the two of them, weighing his options as to what to suggest. “Long Island?”

“Commack?” Sam countered.

“Commack is in Long Island, don’t argue.” Bucky prodded Sam’s shoulder and nodded to Steve. “Who’s driving?”

“Sam, since we only have bikes.”

“You invite us over and tell me I’m drivin’, where the hell are your manners?” Sam chuckled as he waved them to follow him to the garage. “Would Mama Rogers have your ears right about now?”

Steve laughed and leaned against the elevator, picturing his mother siding with Sam and tugging him along to apologize. “I’d have t’ duck down— Ma was pretty short.”

“She’d have managed,” Bucky snorted as the doors opened. “That woman was a force of nature.”

Steve smiled fondly, glad to be speaking about his mom in a heartwarming context and not just as a reminder that he missed her. Although he’d loved Bucky’s parents like family, there was no one like his own mother. When Bucky opened the back door of Sam’s Camaro, he slid into the passenger’s seat, turning to raise an eyebrow. “What’re you planning to do back there by yourself?”

“Take a nap!” Bucky announced as he pillowed his face in his flesh arm. “Car rides are boring as hell and you’re dragging me an hour away, I deserve it.”

“See why I have a classic?” Sam noted as he started the car. “Bench seat— you can actually stretch out and nap back there. Stark’s cars, forget that. I’ll stick with this.”

“Where exactly are you takin’ us?” Steve asked as Sam pulled onto the street. “All you gave was a town, not a place.”

“This bomb joint I found once with Riley,” Sam explained as he changed lanes, “although it’s been remodeled since then. Miller’s Ale House. Huge drink menu, good food, and sports. Figured it was safe for ‘as long as they have beer’ guy back there.”

“You don’t talk about him much. How’d you two meet?”

“In the Air Force. Grew up just ten minutes apart and never knew it. Bonded over that at first— then I found out he didn’t have a family.” Sam’s lips thinned a little at the memory, biting down to keep from getting worked up. “Anyways, my family loved him. Funny dude too, very personable. After our first tour, he hung around with me when I moved to NYC. I was going to school while I was in the Reserves, and he was doing his own thing. When they pulled us active again, we both went to the same tour. Dose of luck in a shitty situation, I guess. I got to come back and finish school and… well, you know that part of the story.”

Bucky’s snore from the backseat kicked as Sam finished speaking, making him burst out laughing. “If you believe in signs, man, that coulda been one. I call the man funny and somethin’ happens to make me laugh.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to miss him as much,” Steve said gently, twisting around to look at Bucky curled into the seat. “It’s what best friends do.”

“Don’t be sappy.”

“I’m not— I’m being serious. We’re friends, Sam. Besides the team, your friends, when was the last time you laughed at something?”

“Couple days ago, for your information,” Sam replied brusquely. “Pietro threatened me with seven kinds of peppers on a pizza.”

“I said not your friends on the team,” Steve argued, head dropping back against the seat. “See, that’s my point.”

“Who said he’s a friend?”

Steve tilted his head, looking at the side of Sam’s face as he took a turn. “What? We’re a team, we’re all friends.”

“Like the guy snoring in my back seat and Natasha? Like Natasha and Clint? Like you and Tony?” Sam snorted. “Please, Rogers, spare me. Not all of us are just friends.”

“What are you then?” Steve let the words hang between them, his eyes never leaving Sam’s face as he waited, quiet, for an answer. 

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted as he parked. “Something else?”

“Don’t let your laughter get away,” Bucky muttered as he sat up, rubbing his face and smoothing down his hair. “It’s the best thing you’ve got.”

Sam twisted to look at Bucky, eyes narrowing as he leaned against the seat. “How long have you been awake?! What happened to your ‘nap’ Barnes?”

“Long enough,” Bucky replied easily as he opened his door. “Think about what I said— but do it after we eat. ‘M starving.”

* * *

 

Pietro didn’t go to the gym as often as some of the others-- he wasn’t like Steve, or Clint, or even Bucky. Part of his power was an enhanced metabolism-- he didn’t need to do cardio to stay lean. But when he did come, Pietro lifted, and he boxed. When he had first come to live here, unsure of who to trust, it was Captain Rogers who had coaxed him down to the gym and asked him to try out whatever he’d like. 

The first few times, he and Wanda had simply wandered the gym, unsure of what to do with the unfamiliar equipment they were surrounded by. Wanda had taken to the ropes and weights, seeking to strengthen her body when her control of her mind was slipping. When Steve started wrapping his knuckles, Pietro had tipped his head and sat down to watch him. The smell and shine of the gloves were enticing, even from his post on the floor. Watching Steve batter the bags was intoxicating. Bucky had tossed a pair of gloves his way, taped his hands, and asked if he needed any tips. 

Clint had gone ahead home after their movie, citing that there ‘wasn't enough coffee in the world’ to convince him to go to the gym at 11pm. Given the tension from Natasha leaving, Pietro hadn't protested, watching Clint’s wave as the elevator doors closed. He hadn’t expected anyone to join him this late anyways, and it was just as well. Clint needed the sleep and Wanda would keep an eye on him. 

The door opening startled him, but no one around here had a healthy sleep schedule. “It is late,” Pietro called as he concentrated on keeping the tape taut. “Can you not sleep?”

“You’d think I could, considering I just drove to Commack and back with Super and Superior, but I’m wide awake.”

“Sam!” Pietro was to the door and wrapping his arms around Sam before either of them could blink. 

Sam squeezed him back, laughing into the side of Pietro’s neck as he did. “Did you have a guys’ night too? Or did you stay in with Wanda?”

“Peter, Tony, and Clint. We watched… ah… Boxer man!”

Glancing at the wrap on Pietro’s hands, Sam thought for a moment, trying to recall what it could be. “Shit, do you mean you guys watched Rocky? Which one?”

Pietro took a step back and smirked, cupping his hands around his mouth. “ADRIANNNNNNN!” At Sam’s snort, he paused to retrieve his own gloves, squaring up to the speed bag. “Bucky is no short Italian man, but he did teach me a bit.”

“I’m sure he’d be glad to hear you don’t think he’s short!” Sam called over his shoulder as he headed for the lockers. “I need to go change, I’ll be right back.”

“Do you not want me looking?” Pietro mused aloud. He dropped his hands, realized that it had not been in his head, and turned with wide eyes. “Sam, I--”

Sam looked back, not looking the least bit perturbed by Pietro’s candid comment. “Nah. I wouldn’t mind if you did.” Pulling his shirt over his head, he dropped it on the floor, pulling a compression shirt from his locker.

Pietro’s eyebrow raised, eyes tracing from Sam’s shoulders down his back. “It is not a bad view.”

“You wound me,” Sam clutched the shirt to his chest and feigned fainting. “It’s at least a good view, man!” Pulling the shirt on, he retrieved a pair of sneakers, dropping to sit on the bench next to the lockers to lace them up.

Pietro stepped slowly, making his approach obvious, before sitting next to Sam and bumping his shoulder. “I think it is more than good. It may be my favorite.” 

Pulling his feet onto the bench so he could turn and look at Pietro, Sam flushed. “What are you playing at?” 

“I enjoy you,” Pietro said earnestly as he reached to lace his fingers with Sam’s. “Is that how you say?”

“I’m into you, too,” Sam nodded. “I don’t know what this is, but it works for us. We don’t have to call it anything.” 

“Can we? Call it something?”

Sam dropped his feet to the floor, pulling at Pietro’s hand to draw him closer. “What would you have called it back home?”

“There is no word in English for it. Not in Sokovian, either. But once, I heard my mother say something to my father that she learned in a book. Meraki-- she said it was Greek. She said when she met him, it was like a piece of her soul would be with him. Meraki is leaving a piece of yourself in your work… I guess he was her life’s work, yes? This, I understand. Something in my soul understands you.”

“Who knew you were poetic?” Sam murmured as he slid a hand under Pietro’s chin. “That was beautiful. Here, I would call you my boyfriend. And I’m gonna ask if it’s okay to kiss you.”

Pietro didn’t speak for a moment, his leaning into the touch of Sam’s fingers. “I feared you never would,” he asserted before he leaned in to meet Sam halfway. 


	9. I've Searched, With the Sound of Your Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family bonding, Natasha's adjustment to being back, and a whole lot of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, readers! I hope you guys have been enjoying the frequent updates this summer. It's been great for me to be able to sit down and do some serious work on this story. Thank you to h34rt1lly for being my beta. :*

Bruce always ate his breakfast in the lab. The common floor had been increasingly busy lately, leaving him to seek solace in the one place he knew was his. Sure, he had his own floor, but it felt like a facade. Tony had quietly added a kitchen space between their two halves of the lab, likely at the prodding of Jarvis, years ago. The addition had felt like a promise-- of safety, and trust.

Occasionally, Tony would join him. This morning was one of those, increasingly rare since he and Steve had become more serious, but Bruce was grateful for his company. “Morning, stranger,” Bruce said as the door opened. “Tired of looking at Captain America? I know you can’t be lonely.”

Tony nudged a takeout cup across the table, chewing a bite of his breakfast burrito. “I could never be tired of looking at the tight uniform,” he countered. “But I did think you might be getting tired of Jarvis as your constant companion.”

“I resemble that remark, Sir,” the AI quipped, “and I think I’ve been programmed to be an excellent companion.”

“Careful, I can override that programmed sass,” Tony noted dryly. “Don’t have kids, Brucie. They back talk.”

Bruce couldn’t bite back the laugh as he picked up the cup, sniffing it to confirm the contents-- a London Fog. “You didn't mix up our cups and it isn’t even 7am. Color me impressed.”

“Are you really not going to acknowledge my kid comment?” Tony sneaked through another mouthful of food. “Either of you?”

“I am ignoring it,” Jarvis noted.

Bruce shook his head, pushing back from the table to gather a green smoothie and a bowl of granola. “Not ignoring it,” he called as he poured some almond milk into the bowl. “I’m just thinking I’d have to want a partner to have that concern.”

“Is there some rule that asexuals can’t adopt now?”

“No, but I think there’s a rule that Hulks can’t,” Bruce countered as he sat back down.

“Touché, my friend. Touché.”

A knock on the glass startled both of them. Their shared reaction to turn towards the door must have been delayed by the early morning hour, only in time to see that Peter was waving as he ambled through the door. “Did I miss my invite to the science club brunch?” He held up a bag of bagels in offering, putting them in the middle of the table as he pulled up a chair.

Tony reached for a bagel as Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me, I like fresh bagels!” He stuck out his tongue as he got up in search of cream cheese, undeterred by Bruce’s judgemental eyebrow.

“It’s not brunch if it’s only 6:30 in the morning,” Bruce pointed out mildly as he went back to his bowl. “Save me one for later, will you?”

Peter nodded, pulling out his own bagel. “Are we doing maintenance on the bots today?”

“Yes, I told Wanda she needs to plan for 3-7 days off. It depends on how our reconfigurations go with the fight patterns.”

“Are you joining us?” Peter asked Tony as he sat back down.

Tony sighed, pulling a hand through his hair as he shook his head. “I’d love nothing more, but I think someone needs to check in on Natasha. Barnes is out, Clint wants nothing to do with her right now, and Sam is tapped. I’m up to bat.”

“Good luck,” Bruce said earnestly. “She needs a friend, not a lecture.”  


* * *

 

Natasha didn’t know what to do in the Tower anymore. James had drug her back here, broken and unsure of how to live with herself. Here, in close proximity to Clint. _He deserves better._ She breathed out heavily, rolling to the other side of the bed with the blanket clutched to her chest.

The Commons had bedrooms, but they were primarily designed for guests-- not that anyone around here had many guests over. For now, while things were in progress, Nat was occupying one of the rooms. It was oddly hilarious to be a guest in “your own home” so to speak, having lived in the Tower for years, yet no longer having a place to really call her own.

A knock on her door made Natasha groan, not wanting company but knowing that refusal was futile. “What is it?”

“Room service,” Tony’s voice called through the door, “and we need you to vacate bed in order to change the sheets, ma’am.”

“You aren’t as funny as you think you are.”

The door swung open, unbidden by Nat (though it wasn’t surprising), revealing a disgruntled Tony Stark. “I am very funny and I don’t need your opinion to validate that fact!”

“Then don’t sound so wounded,” she muttered into her pillow, not bothering to roll to look at Tony. “Look, I’m comfortable, so you can harass me from where I am or come back later.”

She felt the mattress dip near her feet as Tony sat down, nudging her leg aside in the process as he pulled his feet up. “If you insist, I’ll harass you here and now then.” Tony peered down at her, waiting for a response. After a few minutes of the silent treatment, he shrugged, picking the conversation back up himself. “I wasn’t kidding about the sheets-- can’t change them when the bed is constantly occupied, Natasha.”

“I go to therapy with Sam. What else is there to do?” She was tired. There wasn’t any point in going to the gym, to the dance studio, or even eating breakfast with anyone at the bar in the Commons kitchen, when she was tired. The serum wasn’t doing it’s job. “I’m tired, Tony. Are you here to tell me all the things I’m doing wrong? I think I hear quite enough of it from James.”

“He checks on you because he cares, Nat,” Tony said gently as he put a hand on her blanket-encased leg. “You don’t have to let him in, but if you do, you have to at least hear him out. Barnes has been where you are.”

Tony studied her face, half-hidden by stray pieces of hair that had dislodged from her bun, to survey the damage. Dark circles, heavy lids, and a pall across her skin that showed she hadn’t been upright to wash her face in days. He shook her foot, gaining only an eyeroll. “Come on. Let me take you out. You might feel better.”

“I don’t want to go out. What part of my current situation made you think that I would?” Nat snapped, pushing up on her elbows to glare at Tony. “You want me to go enjoy myself and pretend that I’m fine? Are you insane?”

“When did I say you had to pretend?” Tony was genuinely perplexed. “Natasha, I’ve been where you are, in case you’ve forgotten. Rock bottom and I are intimately acquainted. You don’t want to go out? Fine. Let me at least get you down to a retail floor with a spa. Get a massage. Get a face mask. Do something for yourself other than wallowing, for your own sake.”

“Face mask?” She snorted at that, pulling her knees to her chest and letting the blanket fall to the wayside. “Only if you’re getting one too, Stark.”

“I enjoy face masks. You don’t have to ask me twice.”

“Can Steve come with us?” Nat asked quietly, picking at her cuticles.

Tony hadn’t thought she’d want to see anyone else. In that moment, Natasha didn’t look anything like the ex-KGB assassin he’d been introduced to years ago. She looked smaller, with her strength waning-- even if it was simply strength of will and mind. Her tank top had bunched around her ribs when she had sat up, and her leggings looked loose, no longer clinging to the muscle tone he knew she had. If it meant getting her somewhere, he’d invite anyone, anywhere. “I’ll call him. I’m sure that won’t be a problem. You don’t have to do this alone, Nat.”

“That’s what Sam keeps telling me,” Natasha agreed wearily as she edged out of bed. “Let me shower first. You go ahead and call him.” Tony eyed her as she gathered a nearly identical outfit and a towel. “I can feel your eyes, Tony. Platonic or not, you’re staring.”  
“Just happy to see you upright.” His tone was soft, hand scratching at his facial hair as she waved him off. “I’ll make that call.”  


* * *

 

Clint had drug the twins out of bed this morning with the promise of breakfast (even if morning for Clint was something more like 11am) if they came with him. When Clint had jostled her shoulder in an effort to wake her, Wanda had hauled herself out of bed, bleary-eyed and citing that there had better be coffee involved.  Pietro had taken some poking and prodding to rouse; he’d thrown a pillow at his sister when she called him lazy, and been dressed before Clint or Wanda could even cross his threshold.

The diner Clint liked to frequent was a hole in the wall, but he claimed they made the best food and coffee he could find within a three block radius, _and_ they served breakfast all day.

“Pot of coffee, Clint?” The waitress inquired as he slid into the booth. He cast a glance at Wanda, rubbing her eyes and yawning, before holding up two fingers. She nodded, reappearing a few minutes later with two pots and three cups. “I’ll be back for your orders in a few minutes.”

Pietro scratched his head as he turned over the menu, puzzling out what he wanted. “What are you getting, Wanda?” His voice grated with lack of sleep. “Clint?”

“Same thing I always get,” Clint noted as he pointed to toward the bottom of the menu. “Cheese Grits Breakfast Platter. Oh, and some of the pop tarts.”

“Why did we go out if you order pop tarts?” Wanda raised and eyebrow as she poured a cup of coffee.

“They’re made in house! With peaches! Not that crap Thor eats.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” Pietro chuckled.

“It’s been awhile since he’s visited,” Clint waved the menu as he spoke, catching the waitress's attention. “I’m not scared of the Prince of Asgard anyway. He’s a puppy.”

“What can I get for you?” The waitress nodded to Pietro.

“Oh, ah… I’ll have the… Shaved Roast Beef Sandwich,” Pietro muttered uncertainly, handing back the menu. “Is it good?”

“I’ve never had a complaint!” She laughed, tucking his menu into her waist apron. “But if you really don’t like it, let me know and I’ll get you something else.”

“Could I please have the Jalapeno Biscuit Scramble with extra jalapenos?” Wanda asked softly, sliding her menu to Clint and picking her coffee back up to avoid eye contact.

“Sure thing. Pop tarts?”

“Pop tarts,” Clint nodded affirmatively.

“That’ll be about 20 minutes.” In a flash of teeth and blonde hair, she was off, moving on to the next table.

“Those extra jalapenos don’t measure up to seven kinds of peppers, do they?” Pietro elbowed Wanda as he reached for one of the coffee pots.

“They’ll have to do.” She was tired, having spent weeks training for upwards of six hours a day before Peter and Bruce had taken the bots back for maintenance. “The coffee is good, though.”

“If you think I’d go somewhere with subpar coffee, you’ve lost your mind.” Clint flung a sugar packet at Pietro and winked at Wanda. “You two are never home lately. This may have been a trap to get you to talk to me.”

“You are not subtle.” Pietro was dumping the packet of sugar Clint had tossed at him, the third for his cup, much to Wanda’s dismayed expression. “Is this a family meeting?”

“Family meetings are when there’s bad news to break,” Clint corrected as the waitress set the pop tarts in front of him. “This is a family outing.”

“I do not see much difference.”

“Pietro!” Wanda kicked him under the table. “It means Clint misses us.”

“Did I say that?” Clint feigned offense as he cut one of the pastries in half and dropped a piece on each of the twins’ plates. “Okay, yeah, I miss the two of you. Cut me some slack, this parenting thing is new to me.”

“Okay,” Pietro crack his fingers and gave an exaggerated air quote, “Dad.”

“I’ve been training,” Wanda said mildly as she took a bite of the pop tart that Clint had given her. “This is excellent-- what did you say you call them?”

“Pop tarts. How is the training? Thought you got the bots taken away for a stint?”

“For a week, it would seem, if it takes as long as Peter and Dr. Banner predicted. I do not mind. I am very tired.”

“You train too hard, too long,” Pietro scolded her as he shoved his half in his mouth.

“What am I supposed to do?!” Wanda’s grip on her mug tightened as her eyes flashed red. Clint laid his hand over her grip, a warning to keep herself in check. “You all got to keep up,” she said with a sigh. “I am behind. I only wish to be better-- stronger, and in control.”

Their food arrived, leaving the table in silence for a few minutes while everyone all dug into their respective plates. “What about you, Pietro?” Clint was scraping the last dredges of grits out of his bowl. “You’re never home.”

“I spent so much time in the apartment, when we came to live.” Pietro nudged his sandwich aside to prop his elbows on the table, resting his face on his folded hands. “I am comfortable, now. I spend much of my time with Sam, and with the team.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Pietro nodded, picking up his sandwich to avoid further comment. Wanda laughed, head falling back against the booth as a blush crept across Pietro’s face. “Boyfriend. I thought you would never admit it!”

“Wanda,” Clint was stacking his plates, fidgeting with them and not looking at her. “Have you still been going to Sam?”  
The laughter waned as she slouched a bit, nodding in response. “I go every other day. We have made… progress, so he says.”

“Don’t let anyone take that from you,” Clint said seriously, dropping a few bills on the table. “I learned that the hard way, and I won’t let it happen to either of you.”  


* * *

 

Feet swinging over the edge of the balcony, arms hooked over the railing, and a priceless view of New York City at eighty floors up, Bucky couldn’t complain about living in the Tower with nights like this. It was peaceful, Jarvis playing music through the exterior bluetooth speakers, and nothing to do but look at the lights. Manhattan had perks that Brooklyn didn’t.

“James, Miss Maximoff is in the elevator, en route to this floor,” Jarvis announced over the music.

“Let her come.” Bucky swung his feet, chin resting on the railing now as the breeze blew his hair out of his face. “I don’t mind the company.”

He heard the door sliding open before he felt the subtle vibrations of her footsteps, heeled boots clicking as she came to sit next to him. Wanda didn’t say anything as she settled, wrapping her own hands around the rail for support and crossing her legs under her. The wind shifted, carrying her perfume as he breathed in. “Heat, floral, and vanilla-- what is that?”

“Fleur Poivrée Acorelle,” Wanda answered absently, her hair loose and curled, already ruffled by the wind. “It reminded me of home.”

Bucky nodded, shifting to study her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, eyes wide as she studied the cityscape with interest. “Have you ever come out here?”  
“No. I stayed in, on Tony’s birthday-- I was not ready to face the height. But now, it seems too beautiful to be afraid of.”

“Are you afraid of heights?” Bucky was baffled by the very idea.

“No,” Wanda laughed, “only of falling in love with New York City.”

“Remember who you’re talking to. I am a native, after all.”

“I have not forgotten,” Wanda murmured as she turned her attention back to the lights. “I only wish the lights did not snuff out the view of the stars.”

“We can go upstate some time,” Bucky offered. “All of us could use some fresh air.”

Wanda didn’t answer, eyes tracing the highs and lows in the skyline. “Could I show you a song?” Her voice caught on the last syllable, revealing her nerves. “I know you have your music on. If you do not wish for me to change it, I--”

“No!” Bucky interrupted, sliding sideways to grab his phone. “Please. Here.” He handed it to her, watching her fingers tap the screen before she set it back down on the deck.

“I found it a while ago, but it means a lot to me. I think… you are one who will appreciate why.”

Bucky closed his eyes, ready for the experience, unsure of what she would show him. “I’ll pay attention.”

The opening notes drew him just as a man’s voice cut in. _I want to feel your wreckage, it's a firestorm._ Bucky could hear Wanda humming along beside him, her fingers tapping on the floor space between them as the song carried on. _I don't want to dive in first. You don't want to hear these words._ What was she getting at? The nerves, the lyrics. Wanda didn’t do anything without purpose.

 

_You wear your heart so fearless, it's like it doesn't beat_

_You push away my demons when they torture me_

_Don't think that I can fight this pressure pulling me underneath_

_It's like I've got the whole world tied around my feet_

 

He couldn’t help his eyes fluttering open, meeting Wanda’s to see the tears that were stuck in her lashes, no longer humming. _Is this what you feel,_ Bucky wondered internally, refusing to break eye contact. She didn’t speak, only nodding in answer to his question, waving her hand to indicate that he needed to keep listening. Letting go of the thought that she had probably probed his mind, he continued to listen. _I'll love you through a periscope. Oh-oh, through a periscope._ Pulling his feet over the edge, he slid closer, pulling her hands from the railing to take them in his. “Who sings that?”

“Papa Roach, they are called,” her voice was thick, tears still spilling down her face as Bucky’s grip tightened on her hands. “The song is, ah, ‘Periscope’ as they say.”

“Why did you want to show me?” Bucky’s tone came out icier than he had intended. Rubbing his thumb over Wanda’s knuckles, he backpedals, searching for a correction. “It was a beautiful song, Wanda. What I mean is… Why me?”

“You know, Tony is the one who got me interested in this band,” Wanda rubbed her eyes as she spoke, streaking the remnants of her mascara. “Sam suggested, early on in our talks, that I use music to help with what I was feeling. Tony agreed with him. He has made me so many playlists, as Clint calls them. They help-- and that song, it really helped me. Especially… after our spar.”

“I don’t regret our spar,” Bucky insisted, as he did every time it came up. “You wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“You pushed me.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and he had to lean in to hear her words, their foreheads nearly touching. “I wanted to hurt something, someone, and there you were. Pushing my boundaries in ways I did not know I could hurt.”

“Wanda, I--”

“Stop apologizing!” The cry was sharp. “I’m tired of this! Of being breakable! That is not all I am. But you… you, James, are so much stronger. Fearless, strong, and full of grace. All of the things I want to be, and have not become. I am weighed by my past, James.”

“Do you think I’m not?”

“No.” Wanda shook her head as she pulled her other hand out of his grip, moving to push a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I think you use that pain to make you better. I admire you.”

“And you thought I couldn’t hear that?” Bucky gestured to his phone, confused by her line of thought. “The song.”

“I will show you,” Wanda asserted as she held up her hand, fingertips bright with red. “Will you let me?”

Bucky took a breath, steeling himself for the exchange of energy, before nodding  in consent. Wanda brought her fingertips to his temples, pressing gently to allow him to see. He had expected pain, searing fear, and depression. None of that met him at her touch-- only images, soft focus, things that hadn’t happened.

Wanda, in control of her powers, fighting with doubtless confidence around her teammates in the midst of battle, with the strength of her resolve flooding his mind. Her hand wrapped in his metal fingers. Their lips, faceted as though they didn’t belong in the same picture, meeting with a spark of red. She pulled her fingers away, blushing scarlet and wrapping her arms around herself as she shivered against the cold.

“Is this… your periscope?” Bucky’s voice was tight, unsure of how to proceed.

She nodded, pulling her knees from under her to stand. “I will go. I-- I just needed you to know, James.”

“Don’t,” he warned as he pushed up from the deck. “Don’t go.”

“I do not wish to make you feel obligated,” Wanda protested.

“I don’t do a damn thing out of obligation.” Bucky reached for her hand, his metal fingers catching the floodlights as they neared the doors. “Let’s talk.”

She squeezed his hand, eyes dropping to their linked fingers, before shaking her head. “Perhaps we should not talk now. Showing you-- it leaves me very tired, when I project. Please take some time, James. I just needed you to know.”

Bucky waved his other arm, offering her a hug. It was the least he could do right now, with the weight between them. Maybe she was right. He didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say-- what good would talking do now? “I can still hug you goodbye, can’t I?”

His comment teased a smile to Wanda’s lips as laughter spilled into the air between them. She nodded, finding his words so ridiculous after what she had just shown him. Bucky’s hand wrapped around her shoulder as he let go of her fingers, enveloping her in both arms with one hand pressed to her hair. It would have been easy, to melt into his embrace, to tip her head in hopes that he might meet her halfway. Yet, none of it felt right-- not now, when he had only her own desires implanted in his mind. She had to let him decide for himself.

“Can I walk you to your door?”

Bucky’s voice hovered above her, a weight on his words that she couldn’t place. The way words carried so many meanings still threw her, threads she had to follow that twisted in knots with her own and left more questions than answers. Even in knots, she knew the answer, pulling away to nod. “I’d like that.”

Metal fingers trailed from her shoulder, settling on her hand as an offering. With a twist of her wrist, they were palm to palm, walking through the door in one smooth step. Once inside, she felt heavier, as though the deck had been another realm they had resided in for mere moments.

Bucky didn’t look at her as they walked, eyes wandering and lost in thought. _What would it mean to feel again?_ The question was stuck in a loop, leaving strains of red in his subconscious. _Funny, how there always seems to be red,_ he mused as they stepped into the elevator. _A red room. A red star. Bleeding red._ He waved goodbye as Wanda stepped out of the elevator, fixated on the many shades of red he had been surrounded by. This one was new. _Scarlet._


	10. The Morning Hurts When I Wake Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even broken pieces can be be re-purposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to start wrapping up some lose ends before we get too close the end of this fic. This is on the shorter side, but I promise, it is a rewarding chapter. <3 Thanks for reading. As always, thank you to h34rt1lly for being my beta, my sounding board, and my friend.

Something about sitting in Sam’s office felt suffocating. Every time Natasha opened the door to greet him for their now-frequent sessions, there was a resistance that felt akin to walking in sand— except there was no sand, and the resistance was in her very soul. It was no fault of Sam’s directly. His office was as inviting as it could be, and he didn’t try to pressure her into talking about anything specific. This entire affair just felt orchestrated and counterintuitive, remnants of the Red Room sticking in her subconscious and whispering snippets;  _ you are strong— you need nothing— you need no one.  _ They called her the Black Widow for a reason _ —  _ the female that preys on the weak. 

“Nat?” Sam was looking at her expectantly, fingers drumming on his knee as he studied her. One foot in, one arm wrapped around the door frame, fight or flight ripping her into opposing states of mind. “Are you not ready to do this today?”

“I’m never ready,” Nat noted as she mustered the energy to loosen her grip on the frame and step closer to him, “but that doesn’t mean anything in here, does it?”

“You wound me.” Sam had set out the tape recorder, the only request she’d made about these sessions when Bucky had first brought her home. “We can reschedule, Natasha, it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“That just comes back to never ready. No.” She hit the button on the recorder next to him as she passed, the sleeve of her sweatshirt dragging on the table in her haste. “And before you ask, yes this is Clint’s, no I’m not here to talk about him. It’s comfortable.”

“We’re here for you, Nat, not an interrogation,” Sam sighed as he tucked his legs sideways under him in the chair. “You’d think after three months you’d trust me on a more personal level.”

“I don’t trust anyone on a personal level. Look what happened last time.” Thumbing the cuff of the sleeve, she didn’t meet Sam’s eyes, focusing on a corner where the strips of molding met. “But I suppose that’s my fault, not his.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about Clint?” Sam measured his words when it came to his sessions with Natasha, well aware that she didn’t want to be here. In spite of her lack of desire, she kept showing up without Barnes coaxing her in. No one was mandating her attendance. “Last time we spoke about the KGB. Do you want to pick up there, or do you have something else in mind?”

“We might as well keep it chronological,” she relented. Pulling her knees to her chest, Natasha sank deeper into the leather of the chair. The feeling was slightly suffocating, but it kept her talking— if she was hyper-aware of one bit of her surroundings, Nat could remind herself that this was really happening. It was a play on the grounding techniques Sam had explained that people with anxiety often used, keeping her in the present instead of lapsing into who she had been in the past. “Did we talk about Alexei?”

A shuffle of Sam’s notes, a stack from their last session just a few days before, was enough to tell Natasha that he couldn’t even remember. They’d covered so much ground in the last two months, starting with her childhood and working up to leaving the Red Room to join the KGB. This is where it got complicated, a span of time when she was someone and no one— remnants of who they had made her and who she thought she’d wanted to become. Sam shook his head, dropping the notes back in a file folder and picking up a clean legal pad. “Is that where we are today?”

“Yes,” Nat affirmed, trying to keep her breathing in check. James may have known the outcome of the story, but she’d never told anyone the details— it was after James, before Clint, and in a time when she didn’t know herself. Sam was patient with every meeting, promising all the confidentiality of any respected professional, but that wasn’t a comfort to the churning in her stomach. “Alexei was my husband, for a brief time.”

“How did you meet?” 

Sam’s voice was far-off already, the memories trying to drag her back. Natasha thumbed a seam in the chair, reminding herself of where she was, before taking a breath and meeting Sam’s eyes. “After James and I left the Red Room, he left me as a precaution for our shared safety. He had to go back to Hydra— he didn’t know better, with his programming. I had nowhere, until the KGB tracked me down. I fell back in with them, as easily as breathing, because I had no attachments anymore. I needed direction and purpose, because that’s what I had been taught for years. I just didn’t want the torture of the Red Room anymore, especially with the pain of being there without James. That’s when it got… complicated. A few months after I rejoined the KGB, they introduced me to Alexei: as my fiance.”

The polish on her toes was chipping, and the sight of it tightened her throat, further words of explanations sticking there as she studied the specks that had already shed. Evidence of Tony’s gifted spa day, complete with corralling Steve into getting red and gold toenails for his boyfriend’s amusement, wasn’t something she was ready to lose yet. Twisting her foot to rest on top of the opposite knee, Natasha rested her fingertips against the nails, smoothing them to feel where the imperfections were. “I’ll try to keep this record as clear as I can, Sam, but I don’t know what lead to my arranged marriage. It’s a hole, one that was never disclosed to me.”

Sam nodded for her to go on, eyes dropping to his legal pad as he took another note. The recorder was still on, ready for her to continue for as long as she was able. 

“I didn’t want to get married, but I was trying to survive. Pleasing my superiors was second nature, and I agreed to marry him, as though I had a choice.” She winced at the thought of what might have happened if she’d refused, blinking furiously before continuing. “He had dark hair and pale skin, not exactly uncommon in Russia… But it reminded me of James, achingly, from the first moment I saw him. I don’t believe that was a coincidence. The KGB knew I left with James, and maybe that was their tactic to get me to agree. I grew to care about him, about a year into our marriage.”

“Did you love him?” Sam’s question was direct, brief, and purely quizzical. He tried not to interrupt her, but keeping up the dialog when the opportunity arose was inevitable. He looked up, dropping the pen in his lap, trying to catch her gaze as a way of apology, but she was still studying her toes. “We can stop there if you’d like, Natasha.”

“I did— I never expected to, but when most of your time is spent with someone, is there even a doubt?” Natasha pursed her lips, dropped her foot to the floor and leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Pheromones, habitual living, whatever you want to chalk it up to. But by the time I realized I loved him, in spite of the circumstances, the KGB sent him on a mission— and he never came back. They told me he died. I left them then, knowing the risks, because I was tired of losing everything. I lived a fairly quiet life for two years, dancing for a company hundreds of miles away. One day, I came back from a performance to find an agent waiting outside my door. He told me they’d found Alexei.”

The catch of Sam’s breath was audible, but Natasha pressed on, determined to tell the entirety of this time period. “I didn’t even a take a bag. I left immediately with the agent, all because I didn’t want to lose another person I loved. We took a private plane, and the agent told me that Alexei would explain everything when we got back to headquarters. I should have seen the signs. I could have killed him, this single man, and the pilot. I was blinded by hope, when it was really hopeless.” 

Nat stood, pacing as she spoke now, the room feeling too small for the truth. “We departed the plane and I begged to see him. When we went to where they claimed to be holding Alexei for recovery… The person they had brought back looked like my husband, sounded like him, and was almost convincing. But his mannerisms were wrong, and his eyes were hollow— he’d been brainwashed, much like James in the Winter Soldier program.” She fisted the front of the hoodie, wanting something more than her own memories to clutch at in that moment. “And that’s the last thing I could remember, for a while. Eventually, years later, I realized that they did the same to me. And that’s how I received my mission for… for the children’s hospital.”

Sam was speechless, his pad forgotten, as his eyes followed Natasha’s every movement. She clicked stop on the recorder, shaking her head at the questions on Sam’s face. “I can’t.”

“Let’s call it a day,” Sam agreed. 

Natasha could feel his eyes, the burn of them pressing as his gaze didn’t leave her. Not as she wiped her face with a sleeve, refusing to look at him. Clint’s cologne lingered on it, hitting her sinuses as she wiped her eyes and serving as another cruel reminder of the bitter fact that she was still losing the men she’d loved. Clearing her throat, Nat took a breath and turned to meet Sam’s concerned gaze once more. “I don’t know when I’ll be ready,” she cautioned him. 

“You don’t have to know.” Sam’s voice was sincere as he stood to open the door for her. “There’s no right way to do this, Nat. Everything is at your pace, and your choice. You could leave and never talk about this again.”

“No.” The word was stronger than any had been in weeks, sounding something like the woman she’d built herself to be. “If I don’t, all of this will have been for nothing. I have a plan, Sam. I just need a little more time.” 

With that, Natasha stepped into the hall, turning back to give Sam a small wave of acknowledgement. “Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

Clint wasn’t ready to face Natasha one on one. In fact, the last thing he wanted to do was anything that was a glaring reminder of Nat, much less be with her individually right now. Everyone had been respectful of that— Tony had moved her things out of his floor one day without a word, nor a request. Clint couldn’t say thank you, but he sent a bottle of scotch, and that seemed like the same thing. Pietro and Wanda had been tip-toeing around the issue, only discussing it at length when he himself broached the subject. Now, two months later, he felt less bitter. Nat needed something that he couldn’t give, and Clint needed nothing— at least, that’s what he told himself.

Sam couldn’t tell him what they talked about, but it was common knowledge that Natasha was seeing him frequently, and that she had a room in the commons. It wasn’t a coincidence that he hadn’t been to that floor since Barnes had brought her home. The rotating cast of caretakers (not that he imagined anyone put it that way to her) popping into the commons “just to say hello” was something near the entirety of the team, save himself and the twins. He suspected that perhaps Wanda had been to see her, but they didn’t talk about it. What was there to say? No matter their family dynamic, the twins were adults, and Clint was not out to control them. 

Shaking off his thoughts of Nat, Clint pocketed his keys, keen on going for a drive with no destination. Before he could get ten feet across the room, he heard Wanda’s door open, indicating that he hadn’t left early enough. His usual alarm, set for 9am, gave his presence away as it sang in his pocket. 

Rubbing her eyes, Wanda squinted down the hall, lifting a hand in greeting. “Why are you awake? And… Wait, dressed? What is going on?” 

Clint couldn’t ignore the grating in her voice, sounding like she hadn’t gotten a real night’s rest in days. “I was going to go for a drive.” He eased onto a bar stool, tilting his head to survey Wanda as she came into the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. “Biology or not, only a kid of mine would need as much caffeine as I do to function.”

Sticking her tongue out at him in lieu of a true response, Wanda set about pouring her coffee into a thermos. Clint raised an eyebrow, wondering why she’d forgo her favorite mug when it was clean— the marble number was hanging neatly on the hook, rose gold rim reflecting the overhead light right back at his face. Clint cleared his throat as Wanda shoved the milk aside to get her white chocolate creamer out of the fridge. “Going somewhere this early?”

“You said you were going for a drive, no?” Clicking the lid back on with more force than necessary, Wanda dropped the bottle back on the shelf, leaning back against the fridge door to close it. “I’m coming.”

“You just got out of bed.”

“And I need to impress your car?” She snorted with indignance, picking up the thermos and pulling on a gray knit beanie she had left on the counter. “Come. Wherever you are going, I want to be.” 

Arguing with her was fruitless. There was no true harm in Wanda’s company, and he would be lying to himself if he couldn’t admit that he valued the rare times when he got her company alone. When the twins were together, it was different— although he enjoyed time with both of them, they had a bond that he couldn’t (and wouldn’t) breach that left him odd man out. Getting time to talk to either of them one on one was increasingly rare, with Pietro spending more time with Sam and Wanda spending more time alone. 

“Ah, hell, come on then,” Clint conceded as he toed on his shoes. “But for the love of god, do not spill that in my truck!”

“You say that as though your truck is not already questionably stained,” Wanda argued as she pulled her jacket on and followed him into the elevator.

“I don’t know why you kids and Sam can’t just cut me some slack about my truck!” Clint countered. “What did Cheryl ever do to you?”

The elevator stopped, doors sliding open to allow Sam to step in between them. “I cannot believe you named your truck, let alone that you named it Cheryl.”

“This is a private conversation, Wilson!” Clint shouted in exasperation. “You are the last person who gets to comment on my vehicle!”

“At least  _ my _ classic is restored. Have you seen the rust in your bed? Did you get that bumper replaced?” Sam snickered as he watched the numbers count down, the doors sliding back open to let him off at the gym. As he stepped out, Sam put a hand on the door to keep it from closing. “Might want to reupholster the old girl too, Barton,” he called over his shoulder as he let go and sprinted down the hall. 

“SAM WILSON!” Clint shouted after him, though he made no motion to chase after him, settling for a sigh. “You see what you started, Wanda?”

“I did not invite him into the elevator— it a free tower.” 

Clint couldn’t help but gape at her, wondering where a snarky response could have come from. Glancing up at the ceiling with a huff, he couldn’t miss his expression, so closely mirroring Wanda’s, in the polished steel.  _ Oh. Right. _

“What is it about motorized vehicles that turns men into dogs?” Wanda mused as they strolled through the garage towards Clint’s truck.

“Why would you pick dogs as your analogy?” Clint’s brow furrowed as he unlocked the passenger side door and held it open for Wanda,gesturing for her to go first. 

“Fighting to be the best— like an alpha.”

“I think you mean wolves, not dogs.”

Wanda waved him off, climbing into the truck and clicking the seat belt as Clint closed the door firmly behind her. Still cradling her coffee, Wanda shifted against the seat, her fingers skimming over a tear in the wool upholstery. “Who would choose wool in a truck? It attracts hair.” She noted that there was some stuck to the seat, which probably meant that Lucky had been in the truck at some point. 

“I never claimed to have infinite knowledge of the 1970s, even if Cheryl came from that era,” Clint snorted as Cheryl turned over under his fingers, “but I have to agree that cleaning dog hair out of wool broadcloth is low on my list of things I enjoy.”

“It isn’t even on the list!” Wanda countered as Clint pulled onto the road. “Where are we going?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue!” Clint said cheerfully, turning the corner and casting a smirk her way. “We’re getting Cheryl some gas and getting lost. North or South?”

“North,” Wanda responded with interest, taking a sip of her coffee and looking out the window to gauge where they were. “But you didn’t ask for an East or West?”

“The road can decide that. We’ll decide the turns as we go along— but we’ll head North, since you picked it.”

“Are we running away from something?” Wanda mused as she pulled her beanie lower to cover her ears, grimacing at the slow sputtering of the heater in the truck. 

“Everything!” Clint declared as he got out. “Here— this excursion demands snacks.” He pulled a fifty out of his wallet and stretched through the open window towards her, waving it. “Get whatever you want, I’m sure as hell not picky.”

Wanda couldn’t suppress her grin as she abandoned the thermos and headed into the gas station, returning with four bags of assorted food items and a large coffee for Clint. 

“It’s like you know me,” he noted with a wink before taking the cup from her and climbing back into the driver’s seat. “North, ahoy!”

“This is not a ship. This is a truck.”

“Stop being so literal. That’s your brother’s thing, not yours.”

“How long are we driving for? Are we counting miles or time?” Wanda was perplexed by this entire idea, of going somewhere with no schedule or destination in mind. “How will we know when to stop?”

“When it feels like the right place— and if it has food.”

They settled into companionable silence for an hour, with Wanda taking in the scenery and occasionally taking pictures on her phone, and Clint wondering if they’d end up in Canada before he had enough room to breathe. When he had gotten up at the ungodly hour of 8am this morning (hey, he wasn’t a morning person by any stretch of the imagination), the only thing Clint had wanted to do was run. Now, with Wanda keeping him company, it felt less like the suffocation was the fault of the Tower— maybe it was just the fault of his own mind. Taking the time to dwell on feelings he didn’t want to discuss wasn’t his M.O., and there was nowhere to avoid it in the Tower. 

“Why are we doing this, Clint?” Wanda asked quietly, eyes still studying the thickly-treed landscape as they sped along. 

“Do you want the version I tell myself, or the truth?” Clint sighed, shifting his grip on the steering wheel and feeling immensely glad that there was space between them on the bench. Wanda may have been able to feel the waves of thought radiating through the cab of the truck, but without touching, she wouldn’t be able to put a finger on the truth. Now, he would have to face it head on, or lie to her— neither of them being favorable options. 

“You lie to yourself.” Wanda’s tone was biting, seeing through his flippant response. “Do not lie to me, Clint. I would never do that to you.”

Taking a moment to survey their surroundings, Clint pulled onto the highway shoulder before turning to meet Wanda’s challenging gaze. “You know, of all people, I would’ve thought you’d understand why someone would lie to themselves.” As her eyes narrowed at him, he held up a hand, a silent plea for her to let him finish. “But you stopped, and I’m proud of you for that. I guess that makes me a hypocrite if I just keep running, or lying. I don’t know what you thought you’d hear, but I’ll tell you— because I trust you.”

Wanda swallowed hard, popping her knuckles for something to do, because there was nothing to say. She had Clint talking, and that would have to be enough. 

“I don’t know how much you heard the night Natasha left, and I don’t think it matters either way. She wasn’t ready to be a mom— no, actually, will never be ready. I should have known that, yet I wanted to pick you guys up from the wreckage so much that I didn’t take a minute to stop and ask. That doesn’t make what happened hurt less, but it reminds me that I can’t put all the blame on her. She’s depressed, and if she knew I told anyone that, she’d have me in a choke-hold faster than we could drive back. You don’t just stop loving someone that you spent ten years of your life with. I’m damn sure not in love with her anymore. I don’t want to fix her, or beg her to take me back— it wouldn’t work, not with the fundamental differences we have when it comes to what we want. But I want to see Nat shine. She’s a shell of the person I loved, and I hope like hell that someone can help her. I just can’t, Wanda. And maybe the only one who can help Natasha is herself.”

Clint let his head fall back against the window, seatbelt still clicked and twisted around him from the position he had shifted to. “I don’t want you to think I chose you guys over her, or that she resented either of you. When people are hurting, they do stupid shit, and they hurt people when they don’t mean to because they can’t stand how the pain eats at them. That’s what ‘Tasha did, and I can deal with it. I don’t need to hold someone at night to have a life.”

“Do you miss her?” Wanda dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, never breaking Clint’s gaze. “Because I do, Clint.”

“I miss the person she was,” he conceded, “but not the person who’s sleeping in the commons.” Shifting the seat belt, Clint straightened and started Cheryl once more. “I think this drive just got longer than we’d planned. Let’s go find some beautiful scenery and some good food.” 


	11. Let's Have a Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony isn't going to let New Year's Eve slip past everyone without a celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! That was a long update window, and I apologize for that. The updates are going to be a bit sparse once again. I'm a college student, and I'm back in the thick of the semester. Expect updates once a month, with some months having more, and some having less. As an apology for the last chapter being shorter, the gap being longer, and the year getting crazier... Here's my gift to you guys. Enjoy something longer and lighter. As always, thanks to h34rt1lly for being my beta!

When Tony had loudly announced, in the middle of Christmas Eve dinner, that he wanted to have a New Year’s Eve party this year… Well, the team had mixed reactions. This left Steve with the task of playing referee, which was just an earmark of being Tony’s boyfriend, but was no less difficult.

 

Clint had been gallantly on board, provided there would be “plenty of booze and games” at the party. Sam and Pietro had exchanged a shrug before resuming their conversation, while Wanda had raised an eyebrow and waved her consent. Steve hadn’t missed Nat’s uncomfortable shift in her seat as she studied her plate before declaring that this was an excuse for everyone to dress up. It had felt so close to her old self that it almost could have convinced Steve that the last three months hadn’t happened at all. Peter, predictably, was ecstatic to spend his first large holiday shindig with the team. Bruce had tried several out routes, ending in Tony throwing a dinner roll at him and declaring attendance mandatory. Bucky nudged Steve and winked, looking mischievous about some comment or another that had sparked plotting in his mind.

 

“Then it’s decided!” Tony had clapped with enthusiasm, raising his glass of scotch sloppily in haste to seal the deal. “To a New Year’s party we will never forget.”

 

Steve couldn’t help but laugh, clinking his water with Tony’s glass and tipping it back in a show of support. Tony had tittered about the party late into the night, wondering what constituted as the perfect festive outfit for the occasion. Steve had indulged him, folding himself into an armchair and sketching Tony in various outfits as his boyfriend tore apart the closet.

 

“Wait!” Tony scrambled for his phone, long-tossed on the couch, and pulled up a picture of a man in a gold brocade suit jacket. Steve raised an eyebrow, puzzled as to why this was relevant, as Tony enlarged it. “This is it. This is the jacket. I must have it.”

 

“Are you buying a jacket for a party that only the team is attending?” Steve still didn’t really understand frivolous spending, not even after this many years of seeing it for himself. Tony curled his lip in response, already on the phone and holding up a finger to ask Steve to hold on. “That was a rhetorical question, apparently,” Steve snorted as he resumed his sketch.

 

“Elijah?” Tony was beaming. “I know it’s 2am, but listen— yes I know. Elijah. I need the jacket Brendon wore for the last premiere.” Steve heard a pause and shifted so he could lean his head back to watch Tony pace in front of the windows. “Yes, the gold brocade. What? Come on, there’s no possible way that was the last one. You and I both know I will pay double.” Another pause and Tony was smirking, shooting Steve a thumbs up. “I expect it before New Year’s Eve. Yes, for a party. Sure, I’ll send Afranco my best. Goodnight.”

 

“I take it you found a way to get your jacket?” Steve tossed the sketch book onto the couch as he stood to stretch. “You can finish your plans later. Bed.”

 

“But we haven’t even talked about pants! What about a shirt? I NEED SHOES, STEVEN!”

 

Steve silenced him with a kiss, tugging at Tony’s hand. “Tomorrow. Really.”

 

“You drive a hard bargain,” Tony hedged as he laced his fingers in Steve’s and let himself be led to bed.  

 

* * *

 

 

To say that Bucky was skeptical about this whole “personal shopper” experience was an understatement. When Steve had called him the day after Christmas, Tony hollering in the background, he had only said yes to make Tony stop yelling. Well, and maybe just a bit of curiosity as to how the hell someone else was supposed to buy him clothes without him ever leaving the tower. But it was tourist season in New York City, and everyone was avoiding the public until it died down. Something about PR, which might have made sense to someone, but left Bucky just rolling his eyes and ordering in a lot of pizza.

 

When he knocked on the penthouse door (the only other floor that seemed to have a vestibule similar to his own) later that day, Bucky hadn’t expected Peter to fling open the door and usher him to the couch. Steve gave a defeated shrug of his shoulders, eying Tony as he and a short man with tattoos picked through a standing rack of clothes that Bucky couldn’t discern the origin of. Settling into the couch between Steve and Clint, Bucky had a vantage point for the impromptu fashion show that was going on with Tony in the middle of the room. “What’s the deal,” Bucky mock-whispered to Steve, “with this situation?”

 

“Well, to answer your question,” Tony said sarcastically as he picked up a pair of black jeans off of the rack before giving the tattooed-man a thumbs up, “Elijah here will show you what he’s picked out. He has some combinations that you can take as is, or mix and match— try not to stress him out, that’s my job.”

 

The man that Tony was referring to as Elijah turned out to be the tattooed one Bucky had noted upon entry, and it didn’t make him any less uncomfortable. “Elijah, you are…?”

 

“Tony Stark’s personal stylist, when he bothers to call me last minute to solve all of his problems,” Elijah answered as he held up two different pairs of shoes for Tony to deliberate between. “It would appear for this situation, I’m also here to style the entire Avengers team.”

 

“That’s not true, Bruce declined,” Clint pointed out dryly.

 

“Don’t start,” Tony warned as he consented to the white sneakers. “Where are Pietro and Sam, though? They agreed to be here.”

 

“Probably on their way Tony, now get dressed,” Elijah huffed in exasperation. “I have to make sure you won’t make a fool of yourself, since you pay me for that.”

 

“He’ll still manage, one way or another!” Bucky couldn’t restrain the comment, and he paid for it in having to duck the shoe that Tony threw at him, snagging it in his right hand before it scuffed the wall. There was another knock as he chucked the shoe back to Tony while Elijah made general noises of distress. “Get dressed, Stark, before your ‘stylist’ blows a cork.”

 

Sam and Pietro did a double-take on the extra body before settling on opposing arms of the sofa to watch the show. “What did we miss?” Sam nodded to Elijah, who was currently chasing Tony into the bathroom down the hall. “Didn’t know we got a new team member.”

 

“Apparently he’s long-standing,” Steve noted as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did not sign up for this.”

 

“You signed up to date him,” Pete pointed out as he flopped on the floor with his back against Steve’s legs. “I think that means you have to deal with the extras.”

 

“Remind me never to date Tony,” Bucky muttered.

 

Steve hit him with a throw pillow and turned his attention back to the hall, catching Tony coming back out in his outfit. A gold brocade suit jacket, black jeans, and a black shirt with white sneakers that looked entirely too expensive for no stand-out features.

 

“Where can I get one of those jackets?” Peter said with interest as Tony spun in a circle to get the full effect.

 

“Hunting two of them down was enough for my lifetime!” Elijah shrieked.

 

“Sorry, Spiderling, this is mine— and you can’t borrow it!” Tony looked pleased with himself, nodding to Elijah as he gathered hangers and a garment bag. “Next contestant, I need to hang this up.”

 

Peter laughed, stepping up to the rack to let Elijah walk him through the options. Presumably not wanting to rock the boat (typical Peter Parker) left him in a combination that Elijah had already put together for him. He disappeared to the bathroom, coming out a few minutes later in a pair of dark jeans, grey sneakers that looked entirely different from Tony’s white ones, a pale blue t-shirt, and a grey pinstriped vest that he was mid-buttoning when Tony swatted his hand away and undid them all.

 

“Open! This is a casual event with friends and you’re a kid!” Tony corrected as he consulted with Elijah for approval.

 

“What exactly about your jacket screams casual?” Bucky drawled from the couch.

 

“Fine, I’ll settle for an eclectic event.”

 

“Open is more comfortable,” Peter consented as he shrugged, accepting the outfit. “Who’s next?”

 

Bucky hopped up to the rack, rolling his eyes at the first few options handed to him. “What do I look like, Tony Stark? I’m a simple guy with refined tastes.” Peering through the section that had his name stuck to it, Bucky tugged a grey henley and a leather jacket free, following it up with dark slim-cut slacks and a pair of brown leather oxfords. “There. Simple. I don’t need to try this shit on if it’s to my measurements.”

 

Elijah sighed, disappointed by the flippant attitudes Bucky and Peter displayed towards fashion. “Is there anyone that actually wants my help?”

 

“I do,” Sam said as he tugged Pietro off the couch, “and this guy might as well get some help if you’re offering it.”

 

“Where are the girls?” Clint asked Steve as he got up in search of a drink.

 

“You know Natasha doesn’t let anyone dress her,” Steve said with a shrug. “She must have taken Wanda out with her.”

 

“They’re doing better,” Clint noted quietly as he filled his glass with water. “I’m sure they can handle shopping without an audience.”

 

Pietro was now clad in grey jeans and a wine-colored velvet blazer, paired with a crisp stone grey button down that Elijah insisted he leave open at the collar.

 

“You look like you just modeled for an Express magazine!” Peter chortled, falling to the floor in a fit of laughter at Clint’s feet.

 

Sam didn’t bother to leave the room to change, citing too many years in the barracks and on deployments to make him shy. Jeans must have been a theme Elijah was largely building off of, with Sam sporting his own pair of dark wash to compliment a leather jacket thrown over a grey vest, white button down, and a black-and-white polka dot tie tucked under the vest. On anyone else, it might have looked like a modge-podge of styles, but Elijah insisted on a leather belt and Sam’s signature silver wrist-watch to pull it together.

 

“You make it work,” Tony admitted, circling the room to get a good look at both of them. “Of course, I pay Elijah to make it pretty fail safe in the first place, but you know what I mean. Barton, Steve, get on with it.”

 

Steve didn’t put up a fight, taking the first thing Elijah handed him: a black jacket, white shirt, black slacks, and grey suede shoes.

 

“You strike me as a classic man, Captain,” Elijah noted. “I did not want to, ah, overdo it.”

 

“I thank you for that. I’m sure this is fine. Clint?” Steve waved him over, disappearing to put his clothes away.

 

“If it isn’t black or leather I’m not wearing it. Barnes doesn’t get all the fun,” Clint warned as he crossed his arms and waited for Elijah to show him an outfit. “I’ve played dress up with Tony before.”

 

“And it’s been a benefit for your wardrobe every time!” Tony called from the couch, now nestled next to Steve. “It’s not like these are a one-time-wear people, you do get to keep them.”

 

“Really?” Peter sat up and twisted to look at Tony. “Can we do it more often?”

 

Steve rolled his eyes as Clint consented to some all-black ensemble, the only notable item being a leather jacket that looked entirely too expensive.

 

“Who wants food?” Sam declared.

 

A chorus of consent (and requests) rang out as Elijah waved, dragging the rolling rack of clothes out with him.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha had texted Wanda on Christmas morning, asking if they could go shopping together for the New Year’s Eve party.

 

Wanda’s reply had come a mere minute later: _Sounds great. Where?_

 

Nat realized she hadn’t thought that far, and that Wanda probably didn’t care if they went to Saks off Fifth or if they went to Bergdorf Goodman. _Anywhere you’d like. I’m buying. Merry Christmas._

 

Clint had done her the courtesy of letting her know he’d be at Tony’s personal shopper meet up, and Natasha had promptly declined Tony’s invite, citing her plans with Wanda as reason enough. Things were less strained overall, but she knew that whole situation was fragile. Truth be told, Wanda’s acceptance had shocked her— they were never fraught, as far as Wanda had led on, but she felt a certain responsibility for breaking apart the first stable place the twins had to call home after Ultron. Pietro wasn’t going out of his way to speak to her, but had seemed neutral at dinner a few nights before.

 

Going out to brave the tourists might be risky, but she was willing to do this. This would, however, include a driver— and going only to stores that catered to privacy. Pulling open her closet door, Natasha felt more like herself, getting ready to put on her public face and breeze through like nothing in the world could touch her. A herringbone peacoat that she couldn’t place the origin of ended up being her choice, weighty wool that felt warm enough to stand up to a New York winter. It was inconspicuous, and it didn’t matter that she had slid on a navy sweater that fit closer than the tourists wore, nor that she had the practicality to tug on lined boots over her jeans.

 

Fishing a simple black scarf and a white hat out of her vanity drawer, Nat smoothed her bangs away from her face, surveying the damage that lack of sleep was still causing. What was worse, lack of, or too much? She wasn’t sure anymore. It didn’t stop her from going to work, patting powder here, concealer there, mascara and eyeliner to wake up her face, and lipstick to make her look closer to the Natasha in her own memory. It wasn’t much, but it would pass in the flurry of holiday madness. _But will it pass Wanda?_

 

It was easier to skip the dwelling, the agonizing over possibilities, in favor of meeting Wanda in the garage. Nat lifted a hand and waved, seeing Wanda’s silhouette speaking to Pietro and Sam outside of the car. Happy had agreed to drive them today, back on security detail after a short holiday break, and familiar with all of the ins and outs of traveling in the tourist season. Sam waved back to her, lacing his free hand with Pietro’s and tilting his head toward the elevator. Pietro gave Natasha a nod as she approached, which was more than she’d expected, before he followed Sam’s gentle tug away.

 

“You look nice,” Wanda offered as Natasha leaned against the door of town car. “It is… good to see you out of bed, Natasha.”

 

A month ago, it might have felt like a slap. Now, it was worth clinging to, and Nat gave Wanda a genuine smile in return. “You look beautiful. Ready to go?”

 

Wanda nodded, holding the door open for Natasha before sliding in next to her. Happy gave them a nod, navigating the streets with patience that only a seasoned professional could have garnered, before they arrived. A sales consultant met them in the elevator, probably due to some well-intended assistant of Happy’s calling ahead to let them know who was coming.

“Please, let me take your coats,” he offered as Happy stepped into the elevator behind them. “Your coat as well, sir?” the man prompted Happy.

 

“No.” Happy leveled him with a hard look, crossing his arms over his chest and falling silent.

 

Wanda bit back a laugh, handing her coat to the consultant and looking back to Nat with a grin. Natasha followed suit, muttering some approximation of thank you to the man as the elevator came to a stop.

 

“Please ask if you have any questions. We’ve taken the liberty of clearing this floor for you two for the next two hours— if this is not sufficient, come find me.” The consultant gestured to the desk in the middle of the room, complete with a nameplate reading ‘Geoff’ sitting proudly in the middle. “I’ll be at the desk.”

 

Natasha headed for the nearest wall, eying the lighted displays suspended there with interest. “Do you know what you’re looking for, Wanda?”

 

“Is ‘something red’ a good answer?” Wanda snorted, picking up a black dress only to tuck it back on the hanger a moment later. “I don’t know. I want to wear something that is unexpected.”

 

“You always wear red,” Nat dismissed gently. “Well, and black. Unexpected would be, I don’t know, sparkles.”

 

“My mother would have gotten a kick out of that,” Wanda sighed. “I never let her dress me up.”

 

“I’m sorry! That isn’t what I—”

 

“No, you are right. I do not wear sparkles or glamour. Why not do it? It is only one night, after all.”

 

They spent forty minutes surveying the racks, pulling things out to tote to the dressing room (with no piece limit to hinder their pursuits) until Natasha felt satisfied that the options in the store were exhausted. The first few things Wanda tried on— a pink skirt with a white chiffon top, a yellow floor-length gown, a green dress with a long train— were all immediately shot down. Wanda looked uncomfortable, shutting the door with a sigh after the third dress.

 

“Maybe unexpected is not my calling,” Wanda called from behind the door. “This is a disaster.”

 

Nat clicked her tongue, picking through their separate piles until she pulled a cranberry, velvet bodysuit out of her own selections. Hanging it over the door, she knocked to get Wanda’s attention. “Put that on. Trust me.”

 

Wanda didn’t answer, but emerged minutes later in only the body suit, looking much more in her element than she had in any of the previous outfits.

 

“This is the groundwork,” Natasha declared. “You start where you’re comfortable. What can we add to this that would make it completely different?”

 

Wanda’s eyes widened with realization as she turned to get a better look in the mirror, cheeks flushed with excitement. “This!” Tugging a silver garment out of the bottom of her stack of clothing, she unfurled it for Natasha’s approval.

 

It was a trumpet skirt, embellished with what Natasha could only imagine were thousands of silver sequins, shifting even in the light as Wanda turned it over in her hands. Wanda pulled it over her legs, unconcerned about Happy or Geoff, and shimmied it over her hips to sit at her natural waist. The result was stunning— on Wanda’s short stature, the flared trumpet of the skirt pooled around her feet, making her look downright ethereal. Natasha would have never picked it up for Wanda, except for as a joke, but it worked here. “How do you like it?”

 

“I love it,” Wanda whispered, looking at her reflection with wide eyes as she smoothed her hands over the fabric.

 

“Now I have to try twice as hard to compete with you,” Natasha joked as she picked up a few dresses. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Nat was a creature of habit, gravitating toward black in most of her choices. Eventually, she settled on a halter dress that was dip-dyed red on the bottom, flowing and comfortable with a slit in the leg that would show off a pair of heels. Wanda assured her it was beautiful, complimenting her skin tone and not competing with her hair. As Nat handed her card to Geoff, she had to hold her breath to savor the look on Wanda’s face. The excitement was blatantly clear, and it felt like they had their footing once again.

 

“Thank you for coming with me, Wanda,” Nat said quietly as they slipped on their coats.

 

* * *

 

Modest should have been an applicable descriptive word for a team party. Steve would have also accepted simple, low-key, or any related synonyms. He certainly did not expect the rapid flurry of activity that had happened in the last week, all at the bidding of one Tony Stark. Still, it was easier to just be pulled along for the ride and humor his boyfriend rather than point out that no one needed lavish clothes, food, or drinks to have a good time.

 

“When I said we didn’t need to go overboard,” Steve mentioned cautiously as he circled the room and prodded at the strings of tinsel, “I meant we could just give everyone some beer and popcorn while we watched a movie.”

 

“Where’s the fun in holidays if I can’t make them extravagant?” Tony laughed as he tapped something on the control panel in the wall. “There. Confetti shower at midnight is set. Consider this your warning.”

 

“Is there going be glitter?” Bucky asked from the deck, the sliding door still open as he tugged his jacket a little tighter around him. “I don’t want to wash any glitter out of my damn hair, Tony!”

 

“Come inside before you start to frost!” Steve shouted as he pulled his phone from his pocket, frowning at the time. “Why is everyone always late? We told them 7.”

 

“Steve, it is only 6:55—” Tony protested.

 

“If you’re not early, you’re late. He got that from his Ma.” Bucky shut the door behind him, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, Steven Grant Rogers, you’re beginning to resemble your mother. This is not 1934.”

 

“I’ll take resembling my mother as a compliment, James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve huffed as he settled on the couch, eyes lingering on the elevator door. “I’m just saying, you’d think they’d be on time. There isn’t a commute.”

 

“I’m restricting your lecturing mode for the evening,” Tony noted as he rolled his eyes and went to the bar in search of a glass. “I don’t need to wait for them to have a drink. Bucky?”

 

“Please.” Bucky joined him at the bar, perusing the multitude of bottles before settling on finger of whiskey. “It’s a special occasion, might as well start early.”

 

The elevator pinged, entirely unnecessarily with Steve’s eyes glued to it in his time-oriented distress, in time for Bucky and Tony to clink glasses as a toast to the beginning of a party or disaster. Pietro and Sam stepped out first, arm in arm, with Clint trailing close behind.

 

“Oh, good, my call to security about the food wasn’t ignored!” Clint announced gleefully as he eyed the tables.

 

“Did I authorize you to plan the food? Jarvis, is that a thing that I did?” Tony asked in mock-annoyance. Truth be told, he really didn’t care what they ate, but he knew that Clint did. There was entirely more food than they needed, spread across two tables that the caterers had kindly set up before being dismissed by security, but it wasn’t hurting his bank account enough to warrant more than teasing. “You know I expect everyone to eat two helpings at least, with the amount of food you can thank Barton for.”

 

“We have a super-soldier, a serum recipient,” Clint began as he gestured to Steve and Bucky. “Not to mention a young adult with the metabolism of the two of them combined,” a wave toward Pietro, who shrugged in agreement. “And I like food, Tony.”

 

“Stop picking on everyone,” Steve called as he stood to pace, noting that it was now five minutes past seven.

 

“Steven, I will take your phone,” Tony warned as he swatted Steve on the arm. “They’ll get here when they get here! There isn’t a curfew!”

 

“Not even for Peter?” Sam snickered as he let go of Pietro’s arm to raid the bar. “Anyone else need anything?”

 

“Are you playing bartender?” Clint asked with interest, following Sam. “I’m sure no one will let me touch the food until we’re all ready, so let’s see your skills.”

 

Bruce walked in just in time to see Sam spraying whipped cream at Clint, stalling in the open doors as he wondered whether or not it was too late to turn back and spend the evening on his own floor. The shirt he had pulled on wasn’t pressed or steamed, the blue plaid slightly rumpled from being shoved too far back in the closet,  paired with jeans and a sport coat in some effort to look like he knew what he was doing.

 

Tony brightened, leaving his nearly-empty scotch in Steve’s hand and coming to usher Bruce in. “I wasn’t sure you’d be joining us, Brucie!”

 

“Well,” Bruce noted as he gave in to Tony’s gesturing and came out of the elevator, “it is the team. Seemed safe enough.” He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow and point at Clint, now wiping whipped cream off of his nose and looking very much like a man plotting revenge. “Although I’m now left questioning that safety bit.”

 

“He insinuated that I could only make martinis!” Sam howled from behind the bar, still armed with a can of whipped cream. “How am I supposed to let that slide?!”

 

“No repeats of Christmas!” Steve yelled in exasperation.

 

“That was Barnes, not me!” Clint countered, picking up Sam’s drink and walking off with it. “I swear, you will never see the payback coming, Wilson.”

 

“I would not underestimate him,” Pietro agreed mildly. He’d been watching the exchange from an armchair, legs crossed at the ankle and utter amusement painting his face.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” Sam grumbled as he refilled the shaker with ice and set about measuring the booze.

 

“There is no side in this argument,” Pietro replied with a laugh. “I am not choosing.”

 

Peter nearly fell out of the elevator, tripping on a shoelace and catching himself against the doors. “Sorry I’m late! I just— this stupid vest— and the iron—”

 

“Peter. It’s fine.” Tony pointed at Steve, whose mouth was already half-open, and shook his finger. “Remember, lecturing disabled. Enjoy yourself, old man.”

 

“You know, all things considered, you’re older than me,” Steve argued as his face flared with a blush. “I was frozen!”

 

“Nope, still an old man in my book— guess I’m chasing a silver fox.”

 

Peter and Pietro dissolved into laughter as Steve’s expression shifted from indignant to bewildered. It wasn’t clear if Steve understood the slang Tony had used or if he had merely reacted to the tone of Tony’s voice, but the specifics weren’t necessary when they cast another look at Steve’s face.

 

Steve didn’t question Tony, nor did he argue further, giving up with an eyeroll and a kiss pressed to the top of Tony’s head. “You’re very lucky I love you,” he muttered into Tony’s hair. “Now where on earth are the girls?”

 

“Shall I call Wanda?” Pietro offered, digging in some hidden inside pocket of his jacket for his phone.

 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Clint objected. “Don’t rush them.”

 

Minutes later, at 7:30, Wanda and Natasha emerged from the elevator together. Clint couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them, together for the first time in months (that he knew of) and looking relaxed.

 

Bucky lifted his glass in greeting, giving a low whistle as Natasha took Wanda’s hand to twirl her around, her skirt catching the light with every small movement. “Quite the outfits, ladies. You’re putting the rest of us to shame.”

 

“Nonsense, Barnes,” Natasha laughed, sweeping an arm around the room. “I can tell Elijah got to the rest of you, if I know Tony.” Her hair was curled, pulled into a high ponytail that left the ends barely brushing her shoulders. It was the longest she’d had it in years, yet still nothing compared to when Nat had met Tony.

 

“He is the only one I trust to get me obscure items,” Tony agreed and gestured to his jacket. “I could not be upstaged by Brendon.”

 

Peter’s eyes widened with realization, spinning to look at Tony’s outfit. “Wait, Brendon URIE?”

 

“The very same. We share a stylist.”

 

Wanda couldn’t help but laugh, beelining for her brother to tug him out of the chair for a hug. “You look quite dashing.”

 

“And you look so much like our mama,” Pietro said fondly, pinching her cheek. “Quit growing.”

 

“Quit sounding like father,” Wanda countered. She gave a nod to Bucky, taking in the rare sight of him sharply dressed. “Was there a theme of leather and jackets, boys?”

 

“It would appear so,” Sam agreed as he waved her over. “Come get a drink, ladies. I bar-tended in college.”

 

“Now that everyone’s here, I have one more food delivery coming,” Clint said loudly, meeting Tony’s eyes. “But it’s a dessert.”

 

Steve looked perplexed, wondering why Clint was putting so much stress on dessert, but his hunger was more pressing than this curiosity. “In that case, everyone get your food and drinks. Blame Clint for the amount of food you’re expected to consume.”

 

The usual sounds of silverware being dropped, heels clicking on the floor, and people arguing over who got the last of what replaced any grumbling Steve might have had left about how late it was. Tony had a point, they had no end time, and no one needed to drive home. “Are we going to play games?” Steve prompted Tony curiously.

 

“Maybe,” Tony allowed, mouth half-full of a street taco. “Depends on what everyone wants to do. I didn’t plan any games.”

 

“I can handle that,” Bucky said from Tony’s other side.

 

 _Sir, Clint’s delivery is here_ , Jarvis announced over the chatter. _Shall I send it up?_

 

“Go for it, J,” Tony consented as he finished his plate.

 

Clint hopped up from his seat, tossing his plate as he went to meet the elevator. Happy was pushing in a large box on a cargo cart, causing everyone to mutter and gather to examine the size of it. “Jarvis, can we get some tunes?”

 

Jarvis didn’t answer, instead cueing up something with hard beats that sounded vaguely electronic.

 

“Excuse me, is this from _Magic Mike_?” Natasha asked with a snort. “Jarvis, why did you—”

 

She didn’t have time to finish her thought. The top of the box flew open, startling everyone enjoy to jump back a step as the rest of the box fell away… to reveal a large cake. With Scott Lang’s head sticking out of it.

 

“Is that a stripper cake?” Bucky asked in delight, roaring with laughter as he doubled over.

 

There must have been some mechanism that made the cake split in half from the inside, opening up enough for Scott to nearly fall out, revealing that he was wearing nothing but a rather garish reindeer speedo. He was dancing awkwardly, trying to hold back laughter, and pointing at Clint. “Did someone order the entertainment package?”

 

Everyone was laughing, even Bruce, at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement.

 

“Christmas is over!” Sam called before he let out a whistle.

 

“It was on clearance!” Scott protested, stopping his dance as the song faded out from the speakers. “Alright, Barton. Bet fulfilled.”

 

“Can someone please explain why Ant Man just came out of a stripper cake?” Pete asked, looking entirely earnest.

 

“I lost a bet!” Scott said mournfully, pointing a finger at Clint. “Never, ever, try to tell this guy you can beat his aim. He’s ruthless!”

 

“It is a well-known fact that I never miss,” Clint said casually as he clapped Scott on the shoulder. “But man, my poker face must be stellar if I roped you into believing otherwise. Yeah, bet fulfilled— that’s going on YouTube.”

 

“That wasn’t part of the deal!”

 

Tony tossed a towel in Scott’s direction, pointing at the reindeer. “Cover up, there’s a child here!”

 

“I’m eighteen!” Peter protested, eyes glued to the ceiling. “But I don’t think anyone wants to see that again.”

 

Scott wrapped the towel around his waist, grimacing as a glob of frosting fell from his hair onto the floor. “This will take weeks to wash out, Barton. Weeks!” Eyeing the table of food, Scott raised an eyebrow at Tony. “The entertainment charges a fee— food, a robe, and a game of beer pong.”

 

“Barnes, you’re up,” Tony elbowed Bucky. “Beer pong falls under games. And Peter?”

 

“Yes?” Peter sat up a bit straighter.

 

“Water pong for you, kid. Or maybe a juice box?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Five minutes!” Peter whooped, pointing at the clock with glee. “We have to do a countdown, come on Tony!”

 

Several glasses of scotch in, Tony laughed, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulder without dropping his other hand from it’s position around Steve’s waist. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll do the count. C’mere you two!” He jabbed a finger into Steve’s ribs, fully aware that it probably felt like nothing more than a spot of pressure. “Get your phone, Steve, we need a commemorative selfie!”

 

“Steve can’t work technology,” Bucky snorted, tossing his ping pong ball into a cup before pulling out his own phone. “Scott, drink. You three, smile!”

 

Tony tugged them both in closer, grin broad and genuine (and maybe a little inebriated) as he heard the click of Bucky’s phone a few times. “Did you get a good one?”

 

“Lovely family photo, already sent to your phone,” Bucky confirmed as he went back to the game. “Hurry up, they want to countdown!”

 

Scott stuck his tongue out, ever-childish, but obliged Bucky’s order and downed the last cup of beer on the table. “Come onnnnn team, we’re counting!”

 

“Jarvis, if you’d be so kind!” Tony called loudly. “Start at sixty seconds!”

 

Pietro and Sam were tucked into the couch, observing the party shenanigans with glee. One too many rounds of Heads Up, ending when Clint had the unfortunate thought to pick Classic Rock as the category (promptly being demolished by Tony), had left them begging off of games in favor of taking in the atmosphere. Clint was poking at the table, debating on if another chicken wing was really worth the inevitable indigestion, as Nat shooed him away. Although Sam had kept a cautionary eye on their interactions, as it turned out, they were just fine— awkward, but fine. Bruce was outside, taking a breather from all the noise, but leaning against the sliding door to participate in the count all the same.

 

 _Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight_ , Jarvis obliged obediently.

 

Peter was bolting across the room, tugging Bruce inside and shutting the door with glee. Bruce couldn’t turn him down, giving him a small smile and looking around suspiciously.

 

“You know Tony’s fond of pranks!” Bruce called to Peter over Jarvis’s count.

 

“Half the fun is in the suspense!” Peter countered, turning his attention back to the count. “Forty-nine!”

 

Bucky’s eyes circled the room, looking for Wanda, and finding her leaning against the bar, head thrown back in laughter at Peter’s enthusiasm. He’d been taken aback by the way her skirt had caught every light source in the room all night, drawing his eyes to her again and again, unable to ignore her every move. The sheer magnetism of the sequins, he told himself as he crossed the room to hop up on the bar next to Wanda, who could ignore that?

 

Wanda turned her head to look up at him, eyes still shining with laughter. “I’ve never done this!” She waved a hand around the room. “Is this what Americans are like?”

 

“This is what Tony is like,” Bucky affirmed.

 

 _Twenty, nineteen, eighteen_ , Jarvis went on, increasing in volume.

 

“What happens when he gets to zero?” Wanda asked, eyes wide as she noted her brother tugging Sam to stand, and Steve drawing Tony closer.

 

“It’ll be a new year,” Bucky said smartly, earning him a swat on the knee from Wanda. “The tradition? People kiss. Supposed to bring good luck or some shit like that.”

 

“And do you believe that?” Wanda asked, eyes still on the couples in the room.

 

“I don’t know. Never brought me any luck before,” Bucky allowed.

 

“Five!” Peter called, jumping over an ottoman to stand on the table. “Four!”

 

“Better late than never.” Bucky laced his fingers with the hand Wanda was resting against the bar, drawing her hand up and pressing a kiss to her knuckles as everyone yelled zero.

 

He barely caught sight of Wanda’s flush before the lights went out and he was covered in confetti— complete with glitter. “STARK!”

 

Steve waved a hand, barely visible in the dark, and grinned. “The glitter was all me.”


	12. These Catacombs Are Less Like Ruins, and More Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat's planning comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where to start in terms of notes. This semester was rough, and I'm about to go into my last. That means infrequency, again, but hopefully not 4-5 months of it. 
> 
> This chapter was extremely difficult for me to write. Sometimes, when you have a plan, it can cloud what you need to be doing-- and I'll own that I over-planned this chapter. Stepping away was helpful, and allowed me to finish it after too many failed attempts. 
> 
> I couldn't have pushed through without the support of my best friend and beta, h34rt11ly. 
> 
> If you guys have been following along, you'll know that I planned to be done soon... But I've spent a lot of time ruminating on this fic. It wouldn't be fair not to give all of the characters the plot arcs I've given to Wanda and Nat. So, surprise! I don't know when I'll find this work to be at an end. I guess the best way to know is when all the stories have been told. 
> 
> *03/16/2018: This fic will continue in the summer.

The last thing anyone wants to receive while making out with their boyfriend on the couch at 1:30 in the morning is a call from their ex-girlfriend. 

 

Pepper Potts could win awards for the worst timing right about…now.

 

_ Sir, Ms. Potts insists that she speak with you, _ JARVIS announced in an apologetic tone. 

 

“Tell Pepper she can call back tomorrow!” Tony bemoaned, rolling off of Steve’s lap. “I’m a bit occupied. Don’t make me engage the privacy lo—”

 

“Tony!” Pepper’s voice cut him off from the speakers above, which emitted a crack at her sharp tone. 

 

Swearing under his breath, Tony shot Steve a look that he hoped conveyed ‘you can leave if you don’t want to hear my ex’s voice’ appropriately, he turned his attention toward Pepper. “Who gave you permission to override my AI, Ms. Potts?” 

 

“Cut the crap, Stark,” Pepper warned. “He put me through himself when he heard what I needed to speak with you about.”

 

“Enlighten me. What couldn’t possibly wait until at least after sunrise?” Tony drawled in annoyance. 

 

“It’s not everyday that Natasha Romanoff asks me for the support of Stark Industries.”

 

Tony shoved off the couch to pace the floor, crossing his arms in thought. “Stark Industries doesn’t sign her paychecks,” he allowed slowly, “therefore she doesn’t need your support for anything Avengers related. I’ll bite. What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Public support in favor of her, following her upcoming press conference.”

 

Steve rocked forward to catch Tony’s waist, an eyebrow shooting up at Pepper’s tight tone. ‘Press conference?’ he mouthed to Tony in confusion. Tony shook his head, letting Steve pull him to the floor to sit between his knees. Steve’s hands went to Tony’s shoulders, smoothing over them. 

 

“What press conference?” Tony asked quietly, more to himself than to Pepper. 

 

“You— you don’t know about this?” Pepper’s voice trembled, realizing that she had overstepped. “Tony, I’m sorry, I just thought that since she came to me that you would already—”

 

“Stop.” Tony pulled a hand through his hair, leaning heavily against Steve’s knee for support. “What’s the purpose of this press conference?”

 

He was met with silence. 

 

“JARVIS?” Tony yelled. “Put Pepper back on the line!”

 

_ I’m afraid Ms. Potts has turned off her cell phone, _ JARVIS supplied.

 

Tony twisted to look at Steve, eyes glazed with exhaustion. “Do I go now?” His voice was a mere whisper, the confusion evident on his face.

 

“No,” Steve muttered, pressing his lips to Tony’s neck. “Nothing you can say right now can’t wait ‘til morning.”

 

* * *

 

Sam had made his way to the Commons for breakfast, devoid of food from Barnes and Barton tag-teaming his fridge the day before. Clint was already there, waving brightly as Lucky snored in his lap. 

 

“Don’t look so damn smug, Barton, you’re the only reason I’m down here!” Sam griped as he opened the fridge, pushing things aside as he looked for sausages. “Did you ransack this fridge, too?”

 

“Ransacked is a strong word,” Clint noted, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’d say I heartily perused it.”

 

“Why do I live here?”

 

“You love us!” 

 

“I never said anything of the sort,” Sam snorted, leaning against the fridge. “JARVIS, can I get some breakfast?”

 

_ Certainly, Sam. Would you prefer a sweet or savory meal? _

 

“Surprise me—”

 

“SWEET!” Clint crowed, startling Lucky enough that he sat up and barked. “Oh hush, I’m just excited.”

 

“Barton, you’ve already eaten everything in sight.”

 

_ I will have breakfast delivered in thirty minutes, and have taken the liberty of notifying Sir, the Captain, and Peter. Shall I invite anyone else? _

 

“The twins are busy. Nat will figure it out,” Clint supplied before draining his cup. “Move, pupper, I need a refill.”

 

Lucky whined, licking at Clint’s fingers before hopping to the floor— presumably to resume his interrupted nap. Giving the dog a pat on the head, Clint pushed off the couch and beelined for the coffee maker, pouring the last of the pot into his mug. It hadn’t been as awkward to be in the Commons since the holidays. The mention of Natasha’s name didn’t make him stiffen, or worse, flee. Seeing that she still wanted to be around Wanda had softened the blow of rapid departure from their relationship; the more Clint reflected on her words, the more he could see that this really was about her and no one else.

 

“Barton!” Sam called, waving a hand. “Did you hear a word I said?” 

 

“Do you really have to a—”

 

“Morning!” Tony announced as he strolled into the kitchen, raising an eyebrow at Lucky. “Your pizza dog isn’t expecting breakfast, is he?”

 

“He might be.”

 

“Tony.” Steve raised an eyebrow as he followed, sidestepping Silk as Peter set her down beside him. “Play nice.”

 

“I am in no mood for nice,” Tony griped, noting the empty coffee pot and tossing Clint a look of annoyance. “If you finish it, you start a new one, honestly!”

 

“What’s got your back up?” Clint asked before setting his cup down. “Can’t be that pissy about coffee that I know you can make yourself.”

 

Tony didn’t answer him, pressing “Brew” and letting the machine work as he busied himself with studying the creamers in the fridge with undue attention. Clint shook his head, figuring it was safer to drop it, and turned his attention to Silk. She was stalking across the floor, ears pricked with interest, in pursuit of Lucky’s tail. Peter was stifling a laugh, crouched beside the island to get a better view. 

 

Natasha’s footsteps in the hall signaled her approach, the once-familiar sound of heels clicking against the hardwood startling Clint enough to peer around the corner. Upright and impeccably dressed—too familiar of a sight. 

 

The white-and-black striped shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt, paired with heels that were all but business, was enough to garner every set of eyes as she stepped around the corner heading for the still-dripping coffee pot and drumming her nails against the counter. Clint coughed, excusing himself from the kitchen that felt constricting in her presence in favor of sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Peter. 

 

“You look nice, Nat,” Sam greeted her. 

 

“Almost like you’re going somewhere,” Tony said coolly, leaning into the counter as he stared at her. “Don’t you think, Steve?”

 

“Is that the way you want to do this?” Steve shifted his weight between his feet, not quite meeting Tony’s hardened gaze. 

 

“As a matter of fact, I think this is the perfect way to do this.” Tony rubbed at his chin, unaffected by Steve’s reprimand. “I just thought Natasha might share her plans with us, since she has no problem telling them to Pepper.”

 

“You never asked,” Nat shot back, reaching around Tony’s head to retrieve a mug and pouring a cup of coffee. 

 

“I’m sorry, would anyone like to tell me what the hell is going on here?” Clint called from the floor, twisting to look back toward the kitchen. 

 

“Maybe I should go,” Peter said quietly.

 

“Peter Parker, if you walk out that door, I will cut the Wi-Fi from your apartment for a month,” Tony warned.

 

“Tony, he’s not a kid anymore,” Steve scolded. “Natasha, could you please just explain why you’re holding a press conference? Preferably before Tony has a stroke?”

 

Nat lifted her chin, meeting Tony’s eyes with defiance. “If there’s anything Barnes has taught me since he came home,” she said slowly, “it’s that I’ll never be free from myself unless I clear every last bit of red from my ledger.”

 

“Tasha.” Clint hadn’t moved, eyes trained on her face. “Are you sure?”

 

The laughter that spilled from Nat’s lips fell flat, arms crossed over her chest as her gaze cut between Tony and Clint. “It’s better than sitting in that room. It doesn’t matter what comes after. All I can do is control what comes now.”

 

Steve put his hand on Tony’s arm in warning. “Natasha, why didn’t you tell us?”

 

“Why didn’t I tell you that I’d organized a press conference?” Nat had turned her gaze to the counter, avoiding Clint and Tony’s prying eyes. “I didn’t want anyone to make a choice for me. Not ever again.” 

 

“Tasha,” Clint tried again, pushing off of the floor and striding to stand beside her. “All we have are choices. You can’t take this one back. If you put that out in the world, you have to be ready.”

 

“You can never be ready.” Bucky was standing in the stairwell doorway, his casual posture not revealing how long he’d been watching, listening. “All you can do is move forward.”

 

“Don’t use my words as a weapon, Barnes,” Sam warned.

 

“I would have understood.” The chagrin had left Tony’s voice, replaced by disappointment that clung to him like a shroud. Draining his coffee cup and side-stepping Natasha, Tony set it in the sink, never looking up at the room. “You’re not the only one who’s made mistakes around here.”

 

Nat watched Tony— taking Steve’s hand, turning his back to her. An apology she didn’t mean would only fall upon deaf ears. Leaning into Clint’s shoulder, he surprised her, pulling her close for a hug instead of moving away. It didn’t change anything, his arms around her waist and her head pressed against his neck, but for just a moment he could keep her grounded.

 

_ Nothing about this is safe,  _ she’d pitched to Pepper just four days ago.  _ But nothing in my life that matters has ever been.   _

 

* * *

 

Nat had gotten everyone to agree to watching the press conference from the Commons. The pain of facing a crowd of reporters alone outweighed the logistics. It would have been too risky, having every Avenger in the same location, broadcasting to the world that the Tower was unguarded. 

 

All of those things she told herself didn’t make it sting any less when Pepper came to hold her hand instead of Tony. 

 

“You’ve been trained for things harder than this,” Pepper assured her as they sat for makeup. “Nothing you tell them will change how many lives you’ve saved, Natasha.”

 

This was Pepper’s element. From the first time they met, years ago at a Stark Industries party, Nat couldn’t fault Pepper’s impeccable dedication to any task that was thrown at her. It was sensible, as even Sam had agreed, to take heed of anything Pepper had to offer. The press would be dragging her name through the mud within minutes of Nat’s closing remarks, and Pepper had promised to handle it.    
  
But it was Tony, not Pepper, who could pull the wires to defuse a bomb. 

 

And Natasha could feel herself ticking down the minutes. 

 

For months, Sam had helped her prepare for this moment. Nat had declined a teleprompter, and was foregoing a printed copy of her notes to refer to. If this story was worth telling, it had to come straight from her memories. If there was one thing she was sure of since this all started, it was that she could never forget. 

 

“Natasha,” Pepper’s voice cut through her thoughts. “It’s time.”

 

“He’s not coming, is he?” It was supposed to come out as acceptance, maybe even resignation, but Nat couldn’t keep the strain of hope out of her voice. 

 

Pepper didn’t answer her. Instead, she opened the door that lead out of the green room and beckoned. With all the bravado she didn’t feel, Nat squared her shoulders and shook out her hair, honing in on the sound of her heels on the cement as Pepper led the way. 

 

* * *

 

Tony paced. With every tick of the clock, a step followed, and Steve could hardly stand it. Before he could get off the couch, Bucky put an hand on his arm, a silent caution. Even Steve couldn’t fix everyone’s hurt all the time. 

 

Steve, Bucky, Sam, Clint, and the twins had piled onto the sofa. Peter joined Bruce on the floor, gaze flickering between the TV and Tony wearily. 

 

“It was supposed to start at 3,” Tony grunted, kicking the edge of the sofa.

 

No one responded as Peter turned up the volume as Pepper appeared on-screen. 

 

“Many of you know that Stark Industries has close ties to the Avengers,” Pepper began confidently, maintaining eye contact with the cameras. “Today, I am here as the CEO of Stark Industries to reaffirm that these ties are binding. Both personally and professionally, nothing could shake my faith in any member of the Avengers team. I have watched them overcome obstacles, and I have watched them negate disaster.” 

 

She paused, allowing the mutters among the assembled reporters to ripple and wane before she continued speaking. 

 

“I have more faith in these people, in their ability to always rise after they fall, than anyone else I have ever met.” A screen behind Pepper showed a picture of Bucky. “A prisoner of war, demonized by the public, has become an American hero.” The screen replaced Bucky with Sam. “A veteran, who continues to give all he can to keeping not only our country, but the world, safe.” The twins followed on the screen. “Two innocent kids, who have put themselves in harms way before they even knew the repercussions, for the sake of what is right.” The screen turned off, and Pepper cleared her throat. “The list goes on. Today, this is about one person. I invite Natasha Romanoff, also known as the Black Widow by some, to speak with you today.”

 

Tony stopped pacing, sinking onto the couch beside Steve and reaching for his hand to grip.

 

Natasha crossed the stage, dressed in black save for a white blazer. The pants suit she had opted for looked demure, a first for her. As the camera panned to a close up of her face, Natasha’s necklace caught the light— a single arrow, cast in gold. Wanda covered her mouth, squeezing Clint’s fingers where their hands lay laced together on the cushion. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching for her tells. 

 

“Thank you, Pepper, for the introduction. I rarely make public appearances, and having your support makes it all a little more bearable.” Nat pursed her lips, eyes dropping to the podium for a moment, before regaining composure. “I’m here to do something that I thought I never could. Most of you do not know the name Natalia Romanova. You know Black Widow, the redhead among the Avengers. A few recognize the name Natasha Romanoff, true, but none could tell you anything beyond my Russian heritage. My file has always been, and will remain, confidential— sorry to disappoint.” That garnered a few chuckles here and there from the reporters. “I’ve done things in my life I’m not proud of. And today, I’m here to tell you about just one of them.”

 

Sam let out a low whistle, pinching the bridge of his nose as Nat paused for effect. “She sure knows how to work a speech.”

 

“Quiet,” Tony whispered, eyes never leaving Natasha’s face. 

 

“A number of years ago, before I joined SHIELD, I was Natalia Romanova. Under the orders of the KGB, I was given two choices: comply, or die.” She held steady, head high and eyes unblinking. “When you live that way, you do things you aren’t proud of. It hardly seems fair to be regarded as a hero when I have done things that should mark me as a villain.” 

 

“Bucky, what is she talking about?” Steve asked tightly. 

 

“It isn’t my story to tell,” Bucky dismissed. “Listen.”

 

“ Antonina Ivanov. Victoria Mikhailov. Diana Sokolov. These are the names of Russian children. These are merely three, of the fifteen, that did not leave the Children’s Hospital… Because of me.” 

 

Natasha took a breath, looking at the assembled reporters before her. From the side of the stage, Pepper nodded at her to continue.  _ They can only write what you say,  _ Sam had reminded her.  _ So tell the story how you want them to remember it. _

 

“You won’t find an article. You won’t find death certificates.” The scribbling of pens across pads stopped. Now, she really had their attention. “Brainwashing is a powerful tool. Steve Rogers has told you all for years that James Barnes didn’t have a choice in his actions. I’m here to tell you that I know how that feels. I didn’t know something different, or better, before SHIELD.” 

 

_ I could leave it at that,  _ she thought hesitantly. But it wasn’t that simple.  _ They deserve justice. _

 

“I don’t want to be excused. I live with the knowledge of who I am, and what I have done. I want people to make their own judgements, with all of the facts, which is all I can offer you. It is all I can offer the fifteen children the KGB ordered me to kill.”

 

And there it was: the cliff that she had jumped from, eyes wide open. 

 

“But why did I do it? How could I make an impossible choice, one that most people could never come back from?” Natasha’s fingers found her necklace, running a finger along the arrow before she took a breath and continued. “What would you do if the only thing you valued was taken from you? You’d become someone else. Would you recognize the person you became?” 

 

Scattered murmurs, too low to make out, met her ears from the assembly. 

 

“Giving me ballet, only to rip it away. Then my first love… and my second. Every time I had one thing that gave me a glimpse of something, anything, aside from violence, they took it from me. Failure was unacceptable. Happiness was a distraction. These things were taught to me from the time I was six years old.” Try as she might, it was too hard to meet the camera lenses now, her eyes trained somewhere on the wall beyond them. “You don’t realize you’re broken when it’s all you’ve ever known. They made sure of that. My superiors ensured my co-operation when they took my husband and turned him into a monster that didn’t even remember my name.” 

 

Hands had shot up, but stopping now would mean never getting to the finish line. 

 

“Who he was doesn’t matter anymore, because that person I loved died the day they sent him on his last mission. Ordering me to do ‘one last mission,’ moments after my husband asked ‘Who are you?’ was the ultimate checkmate. I just never realized that I was the pawn, not until it was much too late, and the damage had been done.” Swallowing hard, Natasha forced herself to look up, straight into the camera.  _ I am the only one who owns this story.  _ “They told me that these children had a virus — one that they said would destroy all of Russia if it were to spread. ‘Bomb the hospital,’ they told me, ‘and you will save us all.’ It sounds so simple when said like that, so unquestionable.” 

 

Her smile was bitter, even at the mere memory of it.

 

“It doesn’t matter who’s hands hold the strings. The best way to get someone on your side is to tell them that they’ll be a hero.”

 

The reporters didn’t give Natasha time to breathe before they erupted, the questions blurring into a deafening roar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the names Natasha mentions are translations of the Cyrillic ones that Bucky mentions in Ch. 7.


End file.
